After the Prophecies
by Balancing Act
Summary: All prophecies have ended, and Belgarath finally has his wish: to live without the future being dictated. However, that doesn't mean all conflict has disappeared. In fact, this is just the beginning... ~Finished. Sequel forthcoming.~
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: These characters and world are not my property; they belong to David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Urgit fidgeted on his throne, squirming on the cushions. His newest general, Akago, felt the irresistible urge to describe in the greatest detail to his king every intricate move of their garrisons. 

"...and the 31st squad has run out of beans, Your Majesty, while we still have enough..." 

The door at the other side of the throne room opened, and a jaunty figure in a purple doublet and pale hose entered, trailed by an anxious guard. 

"Your Majesty, I tried to stop him, knowing you were in conference with--" 

Urgit interrupted both the guard and the still-droning general as he jumped up and raced down the hall to embrace the familiar figure. 

Silk was rocked back by the force of his brother's charge. "Urgit, is this your customary greeting?" he asked, breathless. "I seem to remember that you did this last time I saw you, too." 

Laughing, Urgit pulled back to look over Silk. "You're looking good, Kheldar. Clean-shaved?" 

Silk ruefully touched his chin. "Liselle's been embarking on a quest to improve yours truly. I didn't care particularly for it, so I said there was an urgent message to deliver to you, and slipped away." 

"I'm afraid you won't find it any better here, Kheldar. Prala seems to think she owns me now." 

"She does, my brother. Most assuredly, she does." 

"How are _you_ handling matrimony, Kheldar?" 

"Not very well, I'm afraid. She won't even let me get drunk regularly. Speaking of such," Silk looked up, "do you have a tankard handy anywhere?" 

"I'll ring a servant. But you won't catch me getting drunk. One hangover was enough." 

Silk shrugged. "It's up to you, of course, but if you had ever gone through the Cherek Bore, you'd understand." He paused. "How's the little boy?" 

A wide grin split Urgit's face. "Come on, I'll show you to him." 

* * *

Prala, queen of Cthol Murgos, sat on a velvet stool, gently rocking the cradle of her dark-haired son. She was humming softly, peering down into her child's face. She heard the door creak open and turned to see Silk and Urgit entering. A small smile creased her perfect mouth, and she absentmindedly straightened Urgit's iron crown. "How's Liselle doing, Kheldar? Is her pregnancy proceeding well?" 

Silk winced as Urgit turned to him, shock on his face. "Kheldar! You didn't say the Margravine was going to have a baby!" 

"I had hoped to avoid it," Silk muttered, but Urgit had a sly grin on his face. 

"Kheldar, you're going to change the whole definition of fatherhood." He burst out laughing. "I can just imagine it. The two-year-old kid barely toddling, and Kheldar's teaching him to pick pockets." 

"That's not funny, Urgit," his wife reprimanded him. 

"The almighty Prince Kheldar, brought low by responsibility." 

"Shut up, my brother, unless you have a hand to spare." 

"You wouldn't!" Urgit looked shocked. 

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't need it that much," Silk shrugged. 

"Kheldar, stop threatening him and come look at the baby," Prala interrupted. 

Urgit crowded Silk forward and they gazed down at the sleeping child. He had dark hair like his mother, a slender face, and a pointed nose like his father and uncle. He was wearing a long, soft drape, and was sleeping quietly. 

Silk smiled wryly. "I guess that nose is a dominant trait in us." He reached down and the little boy sleepily grabbed his finger. Silk winced. "Strong grip." 

"Yes." Urgit's face suddenly grew thoughtful. "By the way, Kheldar, I'm having some rather important visitors this afternoon. You might want to come along, to keep me from having a nervous breakdown." 

* * *

_Any suggestions or corrections, whether it be punctuation, capitalization, and so on, or something I was mistaken in the story, please inform me. Flames are allowed, but they must have a reason. You can't just flame me because you don't like the size font I used. (And if you do, I might just flame right back.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: None of the Eddings characters or worlds belong to me._

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**Chapter 2**

"Mama!" squealed Beldaran, racing into the royal bedroom and slamming the door behind her. "Geran's chasing me!" She stopped, seeing only her father was in the room. 

Belgarion of Riva, Overlord of the West, looked up from the scroll of parchment he held. The tall young man's sandy hair looked ruffled, as if he had been running his hands through it, and he was dressed in a casual blue doublet and hose. "Your mother's nursing X'Adara, Beldaran. What did Geran do to you?" 

Six-year-old Beldaran looked up at him innocently. "He was yelling at me and chasing me." 

"And why was he doing that?" 

The little girl shuffled her feet. "I knocked over his castle." 

Garion sighed and rose, putting the parchment aside. Going to the door, he scooped Beldaran up and opened the door. Geran sprang back guiltily from where he had been listening. Garion, pretending not to notice, set Beldaran down. Geran scowled at her. "Beldaran, you need to go help your brother re-build his castle." 

He watched the retreating backs of the two children recede down the hall, then turned back into the room, returning to the dispatch. He smiled at the message. 

To Belgarion, King of Riva, Overlord of the West, Guardian of the Orb 

My greetings to you, Ce'Nedra, Geran, Beldaran, X'Gara, and your newly born X'Adara, Garion. I wasn't sure if I should send you a letter or just send out the formal announcements. You probably know the news anyway, with that hawkeyed little thief Kheldar in constant contact with you. 

I'm stalling. Cyradis is pregnant with our first child. Have you ever seen an irritable seer before? Even though that part of her life is over, as Eriond says, it's still not a pleasant sight. And I have to sleep with her. Are pregnant women always like this? I mean, those stretches where they want everything from kiwi fruit to snails with butter? At least you can just magick them out of thin air. I have to go hunting over half the continent to find it. Cyradis doubtless knows what the gender of our child is, but she's not telling me. 

Well, eight months left till I find out. I've never been a father before. I'm very nervous. Babies are awfully small, aren't they? 

From, 

Zakath, Emperor of Mallorea 

* * *

_Is this about right? I don't know if this one is in Eddings style, but I'm trying. Thank you to my three reviewers so far._


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own the world or the characters, they belong to David Eddings._

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**Chapter 3**

Belgarath the Sorcerer, known throughout the world as the Ancient One, First Disciple of Aldur, the Ancient and Beloved, and the Eternal Man, was faced with a dilemma. His daughter, Polgara, the Duchess of Erat, and just as eternal as he, had left with her husband, Durnik, to visit the newly established city of Mar Amon, the capital of Maragor, which was dead no longer. Relg's first son had become the new Gorim of Ulgo, and Polgara and Durnik went to visit them and congratulate Taiba on her youngest child's birth. 

And that, of course, left him with the twins. 

"Grandfather! Grandfather!" Belgarik ducked around his chair. "She's going to get me!" 

Belgarath scowled at the little boy, who was, after several eons, finally his real grandson. "So? Get her back." 

Poldara squealed as her twin lunged at her, his little fingers tickling her ribs. "No, Belgarik! Grandfather!" 

Belgarath let out a sigh as Belgarik started to chase Poldara around the chair. There was a woosh at the window, and the curtains blew inwards as a snowy owl dropped through the opening. Belgarath sighed again, this time in relief, as the owl abruptly vanished and a tawny-haired woman took its place. 

"Will you get these two out of my hair?" he asked Poledra. "I'm just on the verge of discovering the reason for rivers, and they're distracting me." 

"One observes you do not really mind." Poledra's golden eyes twinkled. 

"They're distracting me all the same," growled the Eternal Man. "Go take them somewhere... like down to their home or something. The river. I don't know. Just get them out of my hair." 

"Grandfather, you don't like us!" Belgarik said, his eyes wide. Poldara's lip trembled. 

Belgarath threw up his hands in despair. 

* * *

When Hettar, known as the Horse Lord in the days before when the battle between Prophecies governed the rules of the world, rode up, his scalp-lock blowing in the wind of the Algarian planes, and his normally stern, hawk-like face breaking into a smile, Adara was startled. The beautiful Algar cousin of Garion looked from him to their twelve-year-old daughter, Relara, on the gelding beside him. Hettar slid off his own black mare and strode over to Adara, catching her up and swinging her around, laughing delightedly. 

Adara asked, still surprised, as well as breathless, "Hettar?" 

He pointed to Relara, their daughter, wordlessly. 

Relara seriously slid off her gelding, then looked into its eyes. It trotted over to Hettar deliberately, nudged him, then came back to the dark-haired Algar girl. She patted it, then it cantered off in the direction of the herd. 

Adara's eyes widened. "Relara?" she asked. 

Relara smiled slightly, the same small smile of her mother, making her ivory skin glow. 

"Oh, Relara!" she embraced her oldest daughter, as Hettar grinned at them. 

"My father will be pleased," he said, still grinning. "Two Sha-darim in the family." 

Their excitement was broken by the thunder of hooves as another Algar, with wild brown hair tied in his own scalp-lock, galloped up beside them, reigning in sharply. He was panting heavily, and his horse was lathered. Adara and Hettar stared at the messenger. 

"This message needs to go to Ancient Belgarath immediately," gasped the Algar, handing the rolled parchment to Hettar. "It's from Urgit of Cthol Murgos." 

"Urgit?" Hettar asked curiously as he swung onto his horse. He remembered the small, weasel-faced king, and his dry wit. Wondering why Urgit would have a message for Belgarath, he told his horse silently to go, and the two galloped off toward the Vale of Aldur, Hettar raising a hand in farewell to Relara and Adara as he dwindled to a small speck in the distance. 

* * *

Belgarath settled down into his chair. Finally those twins were gone, down to the river with Poledra. After three days of watching them, now he could concentrate on his research. Just as the thought passed through his mind, there was the faint sound of hooves through the window, and Hettar's voice shouted up, "Belgarath! It's a message from Urgit!" 

Grumbling slightly, the Eternal Man stumped down his stairs. "Open," he growled crossly at the stone in front of his door, and as it rolled gratingly away, walked out. "All right, Hettar." 

"I think it's urgent." The Algar's dark eyes were grave. 

Belgarath raised one eyebrow, taking the parchment. He split the seal and opened it, reading it quickly. Hettar waited. 

Belgarath frowned. "Urgit got word from Zakath. The Karands are uprising." He swore. "Why _now_, of all times?" 

"The Karands?" asked Hettar. "The ones who worship demons?" 

"Yes. It seems they've allied with their cousins, the Morindim. They want their nation back." He took a deep breath. "They're marching with a host of demons on the Mallorean capital." 

* * *

_Corrections, etc.? Thanks for reviewing! It takes a while to get to the suspenseful part. I just wanted to see all our friends first. Maybe next chapter. Hmmm. Yes. Do I have the style?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the worlds of David Eddings._

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**Chapter 4**

The guard who flung open the doors of King Urgit's throne room was trembling. "Th-their M-majesties, K-king Anheg of Cherek, K-king Cho-Hag of A-algaria, and Qu-queen Silar of A-a-algaria," he stammered. 

Silk and Urgit looked up; Urgit from the stone throne, Silk from the heavy ornate chair facing it. Urgit was slightly pale, but he nodded courteously to the two Alorn monarchs. "Delightful to see you, old chaps. Prince Kheldar and I were merely discussing trade agreements." 

"Expanding your spectrum, Prince Kheldar?" asked Anheg, with a hard look at Silk. 

"A man has to make his way in the world somehow," the little Drasnian said piously, polishing a large diamond on the front of his black velvet doublet. 

"Of course," said Anheg skeptically. 

"And Queen Silar of Algaria," Urgit nodded to the queen, whom Cho-Hag was leaning heavily on. "Let me get you some chairs." He nodded to the guard, who dragged more heavy chairs out. "I'd offer you some wine, but my servants are hiding in a dark closet somewhere." 

Anheg laughed, collapsing into a chair. "You're a droll fellow, your Majesty." 

"I have to be, your Majesty," Urgit replied, "Or else I'd go mad in this dreary place." He waved a hand at the ostentatious throne room, indicating the paneling of red gold and the inlaid gems. "All this gaudy ornamentation wasn't really my idea, but it gave endless generations of Urga kings something to do." 

"You seem not to suffer from the hereditary madness," Cho-Hag noted in his soft voice. 

"The one fortunate characteristic my late father - may his body rot forever - did not pass on to me." Urgit winked. They all knew who Urgit's real father was, but you never knew what spies might be lurking around. "Oh, yes. I'd almost forgotten." Urgit rose and bowed to Cho-Hag. "Let me express my heartfelt congratulations for a certain sabre thrust that impaled Taur Urgas on the plain of Thull Mardu." 

Cho-Hag looked startled. 

"He was greatly missed, of course," Urgit continued. "All that carpet-chewing, wife-beating, and raving that we all grew to know and love. The carpets were rather pleased, however." He paused. "But let's get down to business. This is the first time, official or unofficial, in which two Alorn monarchs have ever met with the King of Cthol Murgos. I think we'd want to take advantage of the situation and arrange a meeting in which all of us could get together and discuss an agreement. World peace _would_ be a nice change." 

"Tolnedra would be a neutral-" Anheg began, but was cut off by a sudden pop. A short little man with a distorted left foot had suddenly appeared in the center of their ring. There was exclamations from the kings, and Silk peered at the man. 

"Aren't you Senji, the Melcene sorcerer?" 

Senji bowed. "Indeed, Prince Kheldar. Your Majesties, I have been instructed to bring urgent news to you from my Master." 

"Your Master?" Urgit peered at him. 

"You've met him, your Majesty. Eriond _is_ your god, after all." 

"Eriond?" Urgit's eyes went wide. 

"Your Majesties, I must tell you that the Karands have ferried their men - and their demons -- to the coast of Cthol Murgos. The Morindim are also marching down from the north. It is believed the Karands intend to take over a huge part of Cthol Murgos, and the Morindim will join them there to create a center from which their demons will be unleashed." 

"WHAT!" Anheg jumped up. 

"The Karands are also marching on Mal Zeth. It hasn't been totally repopulated since the time when the plague hit, and they're in serious danger. Their demons are marching ahead of them, clearing the way." 

"Isn't that impossible?" asked Silk. "I thought no one was supposed to be able to do that." 

"We don't know, your Highness. We have no idea what's going on. But we have to stop this. I must go, your Majesties. His Majesty Zakath of Mallorea must be warned as well." And with another pop, Senji vanished. 

* * *

_Expecting more prophesies? Finally, an event that's not circumscribed by fate! Isn't it nice, Belgarath? You get to decide what to do all on your own._


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the world of David Eddings._

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**Chapter 5**

"There's a Nadrak girl here to see you, your Majesties." 

King Kheva of Drasnia and Queen Mother Porenn looked up at the servant who stood in the door of the chamber, identical frowns on their faces. "A Nadrak girl, you said?" the seventeen-year-old king asked. 

"Yes, your Majesty. "She's...ah...not very polite." 

"How old is she? And is she alone?" inquired Porenn, tilting her head questioningly. 

"She only seems about sixteen, your Majesty. Yes, she's alone. She says she has a message from Drosta." 

"Let her in, then," Kheva waved a hand. 

The servant bowed. A minute later, a young Nadrak girl with luxurious blue-black hair sauntered in. She wore the tight black leather clothes of the Nadrak women, and though she was not quite mature, she was _definitely_ not a child anymore. Kheva frowned slightly. Who did she remind him of? 

The girl cocked her head. "So _you're_ the king of Drasnia. Aren't you a little young?" 

Kheva looked affronted. "You're one to talk." 

The girl tossed her head. "I'm just a messenger." 

"Speaking of..." Porenn put in. 

"Oh, yes. Drosta says to tell you that the Morindim have started burning the Forest of Nadrak to the west and are marching west over the mountains into eastern Drasnia." 

"So? That's Drosta's problem," Kheva answered. 

"It's your problem if they block the North Caravan Route or start to take control of the Moors." 

"The Moors are useless." 

"But the North Caravan Route isn't. And once they take the Moors, they'll start to slowly crowd in from all sides." 

"She's right, Kheva." Porenn looked at the girl consideringly. "How does a sixteen-year-old girl know so much about tactics?" 

"Fourteen." 

"You're fourteen years old!" exclaimed Kheva. "And Drosta made you his messenger!" 

The girl ignored him. "After my father got mauled by a bear and my mother disappeared, I grew up in the palace. When I was thirteen, I became Drosta's property." 

"What was your father's name?" asked Porenn curiously. 

"Tekk," the girl shrugged. "My mother thought I died when the Morindim captured me as an infant. Some trapper found me and brought me to Yar Nadrak." 

"You're Vella's daughter!" exclaimed Porenn, several things clicking together at once. 

"You knew my mother?" 

"I knew her very well. What's your name?" 

"Ayan. When --" 

"Do you suppose we could get back to business?" asked Kheva sarcastically. "Whatever possessed Drosta to send a _girl_ as his messenger?" 

"I'm the most responsible one he had," Ayan answered coolly. 

"I'm sure there were other more _mature_ ones." 

"Men, you mean?" Ayan smiled sweetly. "They're too easily distracted by beer or pretty girls. I _am_ a pretty girl, so I don't have that problem. Don't you think I'm pretty, King Kheva?" 

"I don't have to answer that," Kheva scowled. 

"Of _course_. You're a nice boy, your Majesty, but you don't realize how fast girls mature." 

"I'm not stupid, Ayan." 

"Maybe a little unobservant." 

"_Unobservant_!" Kheva exploded. "I'm the king of Drasnia. I could have my spies tell me what Zakath had for breakfast this morning!" 

"But your spies do the work, your Majesty. Not you." 

"All Drasnians are observant." 

"Maybe the trait skipped over you." 

Kheva jumped up. "Look, girl, you're a messenger. You didn't come to insult me." 

"I didn't want to waste such an opportunity." 

Porenn, looking at the two of them, laughed suddenly. They turned to look at her. 

"What is it?" asked Kheva suspiciously. 

"Nothing, dear," replied the tiny blond queen. "Nothing at all." 

* * *

A horn call rang out in the rocky walls of the narrow pass. A figure in a dark cloak turned on his horse to gaze out over the sea of marching humanity, the iron tread of many feet resounding on the rocky path. Iron-gray smoke rose in the distance from the Nadrak city of Yar Gurak, burning in the wake of the marching Morindim. And towering among the mass of flesh were the demons, shimmering in iridescent colors, long arms and necks weaving. 

Their leader rode alongside the figure, also cloaked in black. He turned to the figure, questioning in his burning yellow eyes. His whisper was hissing and low. "Where now do we go?" 

The figure looked at the mountains towering above to either side of the pass, and the descending path. Ice-blue eyes bored into the mist that had risen. "We travel along the North Caravan Route almost to Boktor, then cut southwest." He brushed a lock of dark, lank hair out of his eyes. "On the Great Northern Road, we march southwards. We'll walk over any resistance, doing what needs to be done to get past. And then..." 

"Sendaria," hissed the demon leader. 

A thin smile, cold as a Cherek winter, curved the figure's lips. "Sendaria." 

* * *

_Feedback? I got the idea of Vella's daughter when I read Enchanter's End Game again. It said that the wedding of a Nadrak man and woman takes place after the birth of their first child, and in Guardians of the West it states that Vella and Tekk were married._


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or world of David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Mescan swatted a fly stinging his neck, wondering if this stupid Pallian plain would ever end. It was all very well for HIM to say go attack Mal Zeth and keep Emperor Zakath from sending his Mallorean army over to the western half of the world, but doing it was another thing. Mescan was a Melcene, and what was a Melcene doing at the head of a horde of howling Karandese fanatics? Mescan shook his head. If he hadn't been bankrupted when Zakath had ordered the autonomy of the Dalasian Protectorates, he wouldn't have dreamed of doing this. As it was, however-- 

"General Mescan!" the call interrupted his thoughts. He turned as a young Karand galloped up. "There's a force of about five hundred men up ahead, General," the scout reported. "They probably think we're just a minor annoyance." 

Mescan smiled grimly. "Tell Colonel Renka to take an equal force and go out to meet them. Pile their bodies in a heap." 

The training HE had given them had made them invincible, Mescan admitted to himself as the scout cantered off. The method of fighting was very unusual, very unexpected, and very deadly. 

At about an hour later, the five hundred men returned with Colonel Renka, the vacant saddles limited to seven or eight. 

* * *

General Balakyt glanced impatiently at the Karands vomiting over the rail of the ship. He would have thought that at least some of them would be used to sailing, but no... As soon as one spot was vacated on the rail, another Karand rushed up to take it. Shaking his head irritably, Balakyt turned to the captain of the ship, who hovered nearby. "Have we entered the Gulf of Urga yet?" he snapped. 

"Not yet, General," the captain answered. 

"We've got a schedule, captain. We can't dawdle along at the coast waiting for the wind to rise." 

"General, we can't go any faster. Our wind held all the way from Voresbo to the mouths of the Mangan, but then our speed dropped. We drifted around the tip of Gandahar and Likandia, trying to avoid the icebergs, and then a east wind made us shoot up to the warmer waters of Perivor and over to the lip of Cthaka. General, we've sailed thousands of miles. Now all we've got to do is to enter the Gulf and sail around behind Rak Urga. A few days at most will do it." 

"We don't have a few days, you fool! We've got to block the roads to Rak Urga before King Urgit hears news of the capture of Rak Cthan!" 

The captain shook his head. "We're carrying full sail, General. There's nothing more we can do." 

"How about rowing?" 

"Not enough crewmen, General." 

"Captain," hissed Balakyt sarcastically, "We've got over three hundred Karands on each ship. What do you suppose we could use them for?" 

"The Karands?" The captain looked dumbfounded. 

"Captain, I want this ship to reach the landing point by sunset." 

* * *

General Halmon smirked as his soldiers poured into Rak Cthan, a flood of black-garbed Karands. His stupid fellow Angaraks had attempted to fight back, but they were dead before they had time to loose an arrow or draw their sword. 

Too bad this was just a diversionary tactic to draw King Urgit out of Rak Urga. King Urgit! Ha! Halmon was a Mallorean, and he held nothing but contempt for the weakling king of the Murgos. And Emperor Zakath had befriended him! Ever since he had married that _Dal_, Cyradis, Zakath had really gone soft. 

So Halmon had joined HIS forces. _This_ was power! Halmon clenched his fist, crushing an imaginary Rak Cthan in his hand. What HIS motive was, no one quite knew, but as long as they conquered cities, Halmon didn't really care. He nudged his horse and cantered down the hill. 

* * *

"So far as we know, there are three forces of Karands and Morindim abroad," Queen Porenn stated, looking down the table at the gathered kings. 

Belgarion of Riva, Varana of Tolnedra, Sadi of Nyissa, Belgarath the Sorcerer, Durnik of Sendaria, Polgara the Sorceress, Fulrach of Sendaria, Kheva of Drasnia, Barak of Cherek, Hettar of Algaria, the Gorim of Ulgo, Korodullin and Mayaserena of Arendia, Nathel of Mishrak Ac Thull, Cyradis of Mallorea and of Kell, and Ayan of Gar Og Nadrak were all in attendance. The most conspicuous absenses were Urgit of Cthol Murgos, Anheg of Cherek, and Cho-Hag of Algaria. Hettar and Barak looked worried, and Porenn's eyes showed her concern for her nephews. 

"So far as we know?" asked Barak. 

"There might be more, my dear Barak. My agents can't cover both continents in every square mile. The three: one's moving through the mountain region to the east of Drasnia. Their aim might be either to block the North Caravan Route or to occupy the Moors of Drasnia. They've already burned parts of the Forest of Nadrak." 

"We could mobilize the Drasnian army, but we don't know where they're going," Kheva said. 

"You haven't even mobilized the army yet?" demanded Ayan incredulously. "Don't you take Drosta's messages seriously?" 

"We haven't had any reason to yet, before we know where they're moving to," Kheva retorted. 

"The second one," Porenn continued to head off further wrangling, "is the force marching on Mal Zeth. It consists mostly of Karands, a howling mass of fanatics. They shouldn't be too much of a challenge for Zakath's army." 

"I am afraid thou art in error, dearest Porenn," said Cyradis in her soft voice. "Methinks that these Karands art more a match for my lord's army than thou dost perceive." 

"How so, Cyradis?" Porenn frowned, turning to the heavily pregnant Empress of Mallorea. 

"These Karands whom thou dost speak of seem to have a method of warfare that doth far surpass anything the skilled Mallorean soldiers can do." 

"Then Zakath will be committing his forces to this invasion?" 

"Yes." 

"Might this not be a foul effort of the Karands to distract his Imperial Majesty's gaze?" asked Korodullin earnestly. "Might not Emperor Zakath be less inclined to send armies to our aid when his own capital doth hang in the balance?" 

"So where's the third force?" rumbled Barak. 

"Rak Cthan's been captured by Karands," replied Porenn, sifting through her papers. 

"In order to distract King Urgit's army," concluded Hettar quietly. 

"So the main attack is the one coming through the mountains of Gar Og Nadrak, "Kheva surmised. 

"Good job, genius," muttered Ayan. 

"Maybe not," Garion spoke up. He had been thinking about Porenn's words before. "As you said, Porenn, your agents can't cover every square mile. It could be the main force hasn't struck yet. The mountain invasion is in all probability the main mission, but we can't get our minds set on that." 

"The main question," Varana stated, "is who. Who's leading the Morindim and the Karands?" The emperor was wearing the traditional gold mantle, but he looked preoccupied. 

"Belgarath?" asked Sadi. 

"I haven't the faintest idea," the old sorcerer replied. 

"But...the prophecies?" asked Barak. 

"Ended after the Choice," Garion replied. "We're breaking into new ground. They're obsolete." 

"Cyradis," asked Aunt Pol, speaking for the first time, "What do your people sense about these invasions?" 

The girl who had once been a seer closed her eyes. "A great evil moves throughout the mountains," she replied. "There is one who has great power and who was thought to be dead by all. He is searching for one who is hiding in the west." 


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I do not own David Eddings' world, characters, etc._

* * *

** Chapter 7**

Kheva frowned intently at the map that lay on the table. "Since they're coming up the North Caravan Route, we can assume that their goal is Boktor. Since they intend to loot, sack, put to flame, and so on, I think we want our battle to be even before they reach here, maybe a few leagues up the Caravan Route. We can stop them in their tracks before they even reach Boktor." 

"So where are we going to set up this barricade?" Barak rumbled, shifting slightly so that his mail shirt clinked. "Right across the caravan route?" 

"We'd better," Garion put in, "If we don't want them to march right past and ignore the blockade altogether." 

"_March_?" asked Varana incredulously. "They're actually marching?" 

"They're not behaving like regular fanatics, your Majesty," Javelin told him, stretching his long, thin frame. "We'd better have a plan of battle and not just expect to sweep them off the Caravan Route." 

"They're surely not as dangerous as, say, the Mallorean army we met at Thull Mardu," protested Varana. "These are Morindim. They won't suddenly drop religion and pursue sense because they feel bloodthirsty for land." 

"But we still haven't found out who's leading the army, Varana," Belgarath said. "That makes all the difference. Back when Bear-shoulders and I went to take the Orb back from Torak, Zedar took charge of the Morindim, and they gathered together and combined their power. That never happens normally." 

Varana's face was pained. "Please, Belgarath. We've gone through this before. I'll just except the fact that someone who's not a Karand or a Morind may be influencing their movements." 

"Good." Belgarath looked around. "I'm sure each of you will be willing to send a few of your soldiers to help us drive back this host of Morindim that's running wild. We may need planning, but after all, Morindim still fight like Morindim." 

Korodullin stood, turning to Kheva. "Your Majesty, I and my knights, clad as they are in invincible steel, shalt be glad to render aid unto thee in thy hour of strife with these foul Morindim, who threaten to unbalance the harmony that hath spread throughout the world like a gentle wind, and vanquish them in their very act of daring to march forth against thee." 

Kheva blinked. "Thank you, your Majesty. What about the Asturians?" 

Mayaserena bowed. "I shalt compel mine countrymen to don their garb of war and hasten to thy aid, your Majesty, for even as there is strife atwixt Mimbrate and Asturian, we are still not barbarians, and hesitate not when it comes to the defending of helpless women and children." 

"Good, good," Kheva rubbed his hands. "Now what?" 

"You could try working on the battle tactics," Ayan told him sarcastically. 

"I was getting to that," he retorted. 

"It didn't sound like it." 

"Well, I was." 

"Then why were you asking what to do next?" 

Kheva let that slide. "Belgarath, do you think we need the Tolnedran generals for this?" 

"Oh, yes," the old man said. "We used them in the Battle of Vo Mimbre, and they were absolutely brilliant." 

Varana sighed. 

Belgarath looked over at the Alorn side of the room. "There is something to be said for careful planning, you know, not just to wait till you're close enough and then charge them, swinging swords and foaming at the mouth." 

"But, Belgarath," Barak said innocently, "That takes away half the fun." 

"Alorns," sighed the Eternal Man. 

"What exactly are we trying to accomplish here?" Hettar murmured. 

"What are you Alorns doing?" asked Ayan, her voice slightly tinged with panic. "You're talking about games when you should be considering your war tactics!" 

"They're not exactly on our doorstep, Ayan," Kheva told her. "We have plenty of time." 

"Less time than you think!" she snapped. "And I'd call the North Caravan Route the path to the doorstep of Boktor, and the mountains the doorstep of Drasnia!" 

"They're Morindim," Kheva said patiently. "They spend more time chanting and howling and dancing around bonfires than marching." 

"Oh, yes? Then how did they get from the land of the Morindim to the North Caravan Route in a matter of weeks? Your brains are getting muddled with the weight of all that thinking, Kheva. The Morindim are not your Bear Cult." 

"Obviously," Kheva shot back. "They're scared of the things they worship, they're scared of death, they're scared of the dark." 

"And you aren't?" 

"Scared of the _dark_?" Kheva's voice went up a notch. "Watch who you're talking to, girl." 

"I am, you idiot. I'm looking straight at you. And what I'm seeing is a distracted young man who'd be better off in some court chasing young ladies than in a council of war!" 

Kheva sprang up, knocking over his chair. "I'm the king of Drasnia! And what are you? A little girl who should be in bed by now!" 

Ayan's face went cold. "Well, _King of Drasnia_, I suggest you do your job!" Her voice was scathing. "Unless you want to repeat Rhonar's feat and stand around wringing your hands while your country is sacked!" 

"Children," Aunt Pol said sternly. Kheva and Ayan sat down, still glowering at each other. 

Garion raised his voice slightly. "We need to have the Chereks and Rivans sailed up the Mrin to Boktor, the Arends and the legions and the Nyissan poisoners start marching up, and the Algars ride." He turned to Fulrach. "The Sendarians aren't really a fighting race, and this isn't a scrape-together-whoever-you-can like our last war, but we could definitely use them to supply food. That worked wonderfully last time." 

"Last time." Fulrach shook his head. "It wasn't really so long ago, was it? And now we're fighting again." 

"It seems like we're always fighting," agreed the Gorim softly. 

"It will be over soon, Gorim," Aunt Pol told him gently. "Soon, the fighting will end, and there will be peace." 

Barak muttered something. 

"What was that?" asked Aunt Pol sharply. 

"Nothing," Barak said quickly. 

* * *

Urgit jumped up. "What?! I've got to get to Rak Gorut to marshal my forces!" 

Anheg and Cho-Hag had risen as well. "The burning of Rak Cthan was something we did not foresee," Anheg said slowly. "I think we should return to Tol Honeth. The kingdoms will be having a council of war." 

"You will be needed, Urgit," Cho-Hag said quietly. "You should come with us." 

"I can't," Urgit said anxiously, running to the door. He called out, "Ready my horse and traveling packs!" Turning back, "I've got to save my other cities. I can't just sit in council while my country gets trampled, Anheg!" 

"What about Prala?" Silk asked his brother. Urgit hesitated. 

"She'll be safe here. Rak Urga is so far down no one can get here except by ship, and Karands can travel as well by ship as Queen Layla." 

Despite himself, Anheg smiled. "All right. We'll sail for home, since we at least need to sit in at the councils." 

Urgit bit his lip, then decided, "Take Prala and Engar with you. I don't want to risk her, and she'll enjoy visiting her friends." 

"Certainly. Ce'Nedra and Liselle will be pleased to see her." 

"Are you coming, Kheldar?" Urgit asked him. 

"Of course." 

"Another horse readied, and send word to the Cherek vessel to ready it!" Urgit shouted out the door. "Let's get this done as soon as possible." 

Soon, they were galloping across the rocky terrain of the Urgan peninsula. 

* * *

Silk looked back over his shoulder at the small group of soldiers accompanying them. "Are you sure this was necessary?" 

"You know how people are about kings." 

"Especially Prala." 

Urgit sighed. "I'm just glad she agreed to get on the ship before I had to forcibly push her. With a three-year-old little boy, she shouldn't be going with me! I don't even know where she got the idea." 

"The Cthan princess loves to fight," Silk shrugged. "Do you remember the time when you rode to save Rak Cthaka and your armies, and she insisted on coming with you?" 

"Oh, yes. The time Garion's sword turned the rubies on mine bright blue?" 

"Garion's sword _is_ very enthusiastic." 

"You've noticed that, I see." 

Without warning, ranks of Karands rose out of the grass in front of them. 

With a startled shout, the soldiers fell back, then drew their swords and charged. The Karands were turning, twisting, in a strange dance. They whirled, and then bright gleams flew from their hands. Knives imbedded themselves in the soldiers' arms, chests, legs. The ones not mortally wounded wrenched them out and started forward again, but suddenly stiffened, choked, and collapsed to the ground. 

"Poison," hissed Silk. 

"Very perceptive, Prince Kheldar." A black-robed man stepped out of the ranks of standing Karands and threw back the hood of his robe. "And your Majesty. We meet again." 

Urgit nodded coldly. "Kradak." 


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I do not own the world or characters of David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 8**

The small village of Tergok, in the foothills of the Eastern Escarpment, had only one claim to fame: they were almost squarely in the path of the North Caravan Route. The biggest part of the village(which some of the more pompous residents insisted on calling a town), was the marketplace, strategically set so that any merchants, craftsman, or travelers passing through could stop and buy or sell. Tergok was a modest village, with little cottages of wood and thatched roofs, and occasional buildings of stone for some of the officials of the town. 

There was a large tavern on one side of town, the Drinking Bull. No one knew where it had got its name, but the Drinking Bull it was, and the inhabitants of the town and most of the travelers passing through, frequented it nightly. It was a small, cozy establishment--some of the women and more proper people in the town would call it crammed, dirty, and stifling--and the beer was pleasantly cheap, though very home-brewed and only slightly watered. 

One of the inhabitants of the Drinking Bull was a one-legged man named Carteg, a cross old fellow who was scarred all over from battles of bygone days--some said he had been in the Battle of Vo Mimbre, more realistic folk said he had fought at Thull Mardu--and spoke seldom, except to utter his need in a gruff voice to the serving wench. 

That night, Carteg hunched in his corner, cradling his tankard and thinking of the old days. The beer had been so much more rich then, the meat more juicy, the game more easy to find. People these days didn't even remember the old times. He thought about Belgarath the Sorcerer. People said he was eight, nine thousand years old. Carteg supposed that was because he was a skilled physician or something. There was nothing unusual about long life, if you ate healthily and did all this weird stuff the physicians did. Carteg took a sip from the tankard, and swallowed the diluted, watery stuff. Disgusted, he knocked the tankard off the table with a heavy hand. 

The serving wench cast him a angry glance, but his scowl made her back up. Rising, he leaned heavily on his peg-leg as he stumped toward the door, feeling people's eyes boring into his back. No respect, nowadays. He knocked the door open and limped out into the dark street, his peg-leg tapping on the cobblestones. Maybe he should take a walk out into the country, and feel the fresh air. He hadn't done that in a while. Tapping down the cobblestones, he made his way out of the village, finding a quiet place on a hillside to sit and watch the stars. 

Funny things, stars. They were always there, glimmering slightly. Carteg stared off into the darkness. 

He looked at it for several minutes without realizing what he was seeing. Then his eyes focused and he peered at the dark, twisting shapes. There seemed to be masses and masses of them, all swaying and darting in a strange, eerie dance. He looked around. They were spread out for miles. Suddenly there was a spark of light, and torches flared up, revealing that whoever it was had surrounded the village of Tergok. Carteg sprang up, bewildered. A glittering object flew through the air, and Carteg gaped at the knife protruding from his leg. Invaders! That was what they were! He looked around and saw they were silently closing in on the quiet village of Tergok. But they hadn't counted on him! They thought he was dead! He took a step forward, and his foot felt strangely heavy. He would shout a warning. He would... The world darkened before his eyes as the poison took over his body. 

* * *

The figure watched the smoke spiral up from the village of Tergok, an almost hungry gleam in his icy blue eyes as the flames licked up from the thatched houses. He felt a presence at his back, and turned to face the demon leader. 

"They are all dead, my lord." 

The figure nodded, turning back to watch the destruction of Tergok again. "Did any of them have any information?" 

The shoulders beneath the cloak rose in a shrug. "This is Drasnia, not Sendaria, my lord. They have not seen him. They have never even heard of him." 

"You described him to them exactly?" 

"He is the opposite of you, my lord. Big, muscled body, blond hair, black eyes, blunt features. None of them had seen anyone special. The Alorns look generally like that, except they are bearded." 

The figure sighed, letting out his breath in a hiss. "It is not long, my servant. We must only march down the Great North Road, and reach Muros through the edges of Algaria and Ulgoland." 

"Yes, my lord. You do not expect the Alorns will attempt to stop us?" 

The figure waved a hand. "Your demons insure that they will not. These westerners do not believe in demons, do not have the healthy respect for them that my Morindim do. They shall be terrified." 

"And what of... Aldur's servants?" 

"How many is there now?" 

"There is the one called Belgarath, the woman Polgara, the twins Beltira and Belkira, the smith Durnik, the king Belgarion, the wolf Poledra. Beldin the hunchback has gone. There is no mention of where, but he is gone. " 

"And the servants of Eriond?" 

"Senji and Pelath." 

"Nine, then." The figure waved it away. "You know they cannot touch me." 

"And if they destroy your army?" 

"I can protect my army from nine." 

"What if they find another?" 

"There is no other, so we do not need to think about it." 

"It is as you say, my lord." 

"Any word from Mal Zeth?" 

"The emperor has been besieged, but the seer and her unborn child escaped." 

"Where to?" 

"The Alorn kingdoms. We do not know what she does there." 

"It could be a social visit," mused the figure. 

"Yes, my lord." 

"Or it could be a council of war. Do you think the Alorns would take this invasion seriously enough to send out their armies?" 

"They might, my lord, if it appeared we were marching on their capitals." 

"Those fools." The figure laughed, low in his throat. "We want Sendaria. We do not care about Tolnedra and Nyissa, Algaria and Drasnia, Cherek and Riva. But no matter. If they stand in our way, we shall eliminate them. Like that village." The figure was silent for a moment. "And of the ships to Rak Cthan and Rak Urga?" 

"We have not heard. Rak Cthan has been conquered, it is certain. But whether or not the barricade of Rak Urga is successful is not known." "I see. Do you think we should prepare for battle?" 

"With the Alorns, Tolnedrans?" 

"With anyone or anything." 

"Of course, my lord. We should always be prepared." 

"Wise words, my faithful servant. Wise words." 

* * *

Silk and Urgit, closely guarded by Karands, were now in a prison tent in the encampment of their captors. Their hands and feet were free, but the guards inside the tents eyed them watchfully, poisoned daggers at the ready. Through the tent flap they could see Kradak walking back and forth, calling out orders. 

_-What is he doing here?-_ Silk's fingers asked Urgit. _-Wasn't he one of your generals?-_

_-He used to be.-_ Urgit's fingers were still a bit awkward, since he had just learned the secret Drasnian language only recently. _-Remember that time when I found out I was your brother, and who Belgarath was, and you had to take me with you? I left those warrants with Oskatat for beheading any recalcitrant generals. Kradak apparently didn't take my stepfather seriously, and threw his weight around like he was the only one left in Rak Urga with authority. Oskatat promptly ordered his beheading.- _

-Then why isn't he dead?- 

-He found out about it and ran. I haven't seen him since then. He seems to be holding grudges.- 

-I wonder why?- Silk's fingers asked sarcastically. 

_-What are we going to do?- _

-We're going to get out of here, of course. They didn't kill you right away, so obviously they were on the lookout for you. Possibly the sacking of Rak Cthan was engineered specifically for this purpose. You're valuable, my brother.- 

-But who would plan this kind of thing?- 

Silk's fingers shrugged. _-That's what we're going to find out. Kradak won't be able to resist gloating. He'll probably come in here to tell us that- -_

The tent flap was flung open and Kradak swaggered in, a smirk on his brutish face. "Not so high and mighty now, are you, King Urgit? You were always sitting on your throne, self-righteous, thinking you were a king!" He gave a harsh laugh. "Until Prince Kheldar and Belgarion came along, you always did whatever we told you to do, as you should have. But then you started thinking like a king. You shouldn't even have tried it. Some people are meant to have power. I, for instance. Others are meant to follow leaders. Like you." 

"Really, old chap?" Urgit cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't seem to be doing a very good job of it. You were the one that almost stopped me from sailing troops to Rak Goska and saving the city, remember?" 

"Quiet!" snapped Kradak. "You are my prisoner, King Urgit, and you will do what I say!" 

"Touchy fellow, isn't he?" remarked Silk to Urgit. 

"Oh, yes," Urgit agreed. "Comes of hanging around smelly Karands who wear the same clothes the year round, I expect." 

"Oh, I think they take baths once in a while… usually when it rains." 

"No soap, though." 

"That is a problem. Say, old fellow," Silk turned to one of the guards, "You don't have soap, do you? What do you use? Animal grease?" 

The guard looked bewildered. 

"SHUT UP!" roared Kradak. "Your clever mouth will not rescue you now!" 

"Clever mouths, actually," Urgit added, almost as an afterthought. "By the way, old chap, who's this great and mighty guy who gives you this power?" 

Kradak swelled. "HE is the most powerful man in all the land, more powerful than Belgarath the Sorcerer himself." 

"I doubt it," muttered Urgit. 

"HE commands us, and we respond to his brilliant plans," Kradak continued, obviously not having heard him. "Demons respond to his call, and he marches across the land to reclaim the country and throw out the foul western kings. When the country is rid of them, we, his loyal generals, shall ascend the thrones of Mallorea and Cthol Murgos, and cover the land until it seethes with Angaraks, Karands, and Morindim! All who join with us shall triumph, and all that resist shall die! We shall purge the earth!" Kradak's eyes were glazed in ecstasy of his vision. 

Silk was frowning. "It reminds me of that bear cultist we met when Garion's son was kidnapped," he told his brother, not bothering to lower his voice. Kradak was oblivious to them. "It sounds false, somehow. The bear cultist was told that story to throw us off the track. I know we don't have any of those repetitions any more, but that doesn't prevent something happening again. I can't put my finger on it, but I think this 'HE' he keeps on talking about is up to something serious." 

"More serious than conquering the world?" 

"As strange as it sounds, yes." 

* * *

_Sorry, Behold the Void, but I can't bring Beldin back. That would spoil the dramatic emphasis on that one scene where they change into hawks, and fly off, "never to return". (I did read Angelic Maiden and Limitless Destiny, though.) Thank you, Belgarion, for speculating, because I really felt like someone was interested in my plot and I was really encouraged. Thanks for the suggestions, Malefika, I'll try to work on the longer chapters. I never liked really long chapters, though. Also, Aquitaine and Malefika, thank you for helping me realize what was happening with the stories. Usually, I leave two lines between the places where I jump characters, so I thought it would be clear. But then I went back and looked at my story and saw that there was only one line spacing between them, and it was really confusing, especially Chapter 7. I will now attempt to go back and put *'s between character jumps, though it will take a while. This story will have a sequel, as I do not want to cram everything into one, and I may merge a few chapters and make them longer as soon as I finish, so go back and read them over when this story is done(though that will not be for a while). I'm enjoying the intelligent reviews.One last thing: Hsi Chan and Malefika, I HAVE addressed the demon lord thing, even though it may not seem like it._


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: These are not my characters or world, they belong to David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Javelin's long fingers tapped on the tabletop distractedly, his eyes grave as he faced his king. "Your Majesty, it seems the Nadrak girl was right. The Morindim are at this point barely twenty leagues from Boktor, and moving fast. They do not seem to stop for anything." 

"I can barely wait for her to start gloating," Kheva muttered. "Very well, where are the troops sent from the other kingdoms?" 

"The Algars have arrived, of course, as your Majesty is aware, and the amount of supplies massed is measured on quite a grand scale. The Arends, Tolnedrans, and Nyissans are passing through Ulgoland with the help of Beltira and Belkira, the Alorn twin sorcerers, who are protecting them from the monsters. The Chereks are sailing up the Mrin River, and the Rivans are in the Gulf of Cherek. If we can find some way to delay the Morindim force, the Chereks will be able to reach Boktor in time, and possibly the Rivans, although the Arends, Tolnedrans, and Nyissans may not get here before the battle." Javelin paused thoughtfully. "If you could get a Nyissan up here faster than the rest, that might serve as the distraction, especially if half the Morindim army collapsed writhing as they marched." 

Kheva gnawed on his thumb. "I could ask Belgarath." 

"I'd advise that, your Majesty." 

"I'll also send the Algars out to start building up the fortifications for the blockade of the North Caravan Route. I think I need to talk with some of my generals and Belgarath about what we're going to do." He opened the door and told the guard standing outside, "Go bring the Tolnedran generals, Belgarath, Belgarion, Polgara, my mother, and Cyradis." He sighed. "And Ayan, as well." 

"Yes, your Majesty." The guard saluted the young king, then ran off down the hall. 

Kheva closed the door, sighing. "Why does she always have to be right, Javelin?" he asked his chief of intelligence, slumping into a chair. "She was right about this whole thing being my problem, she was right about mobilizing the army, she was right about working on the battle tactics, she was right about the Morindim being on our doorstep, she was right about me being unobservant and stupid and spoiled." 

Javelin tactfully kept silent. 

"Fourteen!" Kheva muttered. "She's fourteen, and somehow she manages to out-think me, out-talk me, out-plan me. Me, who is three years older than her!" 

"Everyone has different skills, your Majesty." 

"Right," muttered Kheva skeptically. He seemed about to say more, but was interrupted by the arrival of the Tolnedran generals, who filed in quietly and took their places along the table. Belgarath was next, and he too took a seat, the light gleaming on his silvery beard. Ayan, her eyes questioning, also arrived soon after, dressed as usual in the tight leather clothes of the Nadraks, with Porenn beside her. 

Garion was last to arrive, and as he entered, he announced, "Aunt Pol's with Cyradis. I don't think either of them would be indisposed to come right now." 

"You mean she's--" asked Kheva. 

Garion nodded. "Zakath'll be disappointed not to be present for the birth of his heir, but I don't think they're anything we can do about it. We didn't exactly ask for the Morindim and Karands to get itchy feet at this particular time." He looked along the table, noting those present. Their faces were all grim and serious, he thought. Even Ayan. The young girl's face, framed by the luxurious blue-black hair, was grave. He glanced over at Kheva, surprised that the young king had been able to discern Ayan's brilliant mind underneath the bickering that they always took part in. His mind flew back to a number of times when he and Ce'Nedra had gone through that. Kheva and Ayan's arguments were usually more sophisticated, though. No screaming insults or shouting mindlessly. 

Garion sat down, sighing deeply. They were at a war council once again. When would it ever end? His eyes strayed to Belgarath, his eyes inscrutable. Usually the old man was lazy, indolent, and mischievous. Now, however, his eyes, lined grimly, betrayed just how many years of war, of peace, of study, of pain, of seeing others die, he had gone through. Garion wondered once more about the inner qualities of his grandfather. Belgarath was the first disciple of Aldur, with the weight of all the responsibility that that signified weighing heavily on him. He was the oldest man in the world, his memory stretching back before the cracking of the world, before anyone could even imagine. He was the most powerful man in the world, with the ability to incinerate mountains and with the power of a god at his back. He had seen thousands of people he loved die, including the one of the ones he loved most: his dearest daughter. He had killed thousands of people, not enjoying it, not relishing it, but knowing it had to be done. Garion's mind reeled with how much memory, sheer weight, lay in that old man's head. His face was no longer the face of the old storyteller, the lazy scholar. His face was the face of Belgarath the Sorcerer: old, with a strange regal quality that made the faces of Kheva and Anheg and even himself, Garion, fade and pale before comparison. 

Garion realized at last why his grandfather sometimes seemed lazy, indolent, immoral. It was the only he had of handling that sheer power, the weight of memory and years beyond counting. Garion thought of how old he was: almost thirty, and it seemed like he had been living forever. And his grandfather had gone through seven thousand. He acted the way he did sometimes to hold onto his sanity, his humanity. 

Garion dragged his mind back from that awesome precipice of revelation, and turned his gaze to Kheva, the young king's clear emotions of worry and anxiety showing on his face. Kheva was a handsome young man, his dark hair slightly wavy, and his body lean and conditioned. The gold circlet on his head gleamed slightly, seeming perfectly in place on his brow. He had never gone through a war as the king, Garion realized. Thull Mardu had happened only a few months after he was born, and his father had not died until he was six. 

Porenn's face was gentle as she looked at Ayan. She had been very close to Vella, Garion remembered, and Ayan, as Vella's daughter, would remind her of the fiery Nadrak woman quite often. Ayan was already beginning to display the signs of Vella's sensuality, and--Garion's eyes went back to Kheva--certain people had definitely noticed it. 

The Tolnedran generals, sitting side by side, had various expressions. Some were concentrated, doubtless thinking out battle movements, others had annoyance in their faces--thinking of their vanished retirement--and the rest were concerned, probably thinking of friends or family. 

Kheva rose, and the council of war began. 

* * *

Silk winked at Urgit as his knife deftly slid through the thick canvas at the back of the tent. "Never, ever, imprison important captives in tents," he whispered quietly. 

"You're amazing, Kheldar," Urgit whispered back, picking up the sword they had stolen from the snoring guard. 

"After you, brother," Silk grinned, holding the tent flap open. Urgit slid out quietly, and Silk followed, letting the sliced piece swing back into place. The prison tent was near the back of the encampment, and they found themselves in the dark forest that covered the mountains. 

-What about our horses?- Urgit asked Silk in the finger language. 

-Hold on.- Silk slid off on his belly, and Urgit crouched behind a screen of brush to wait. He bit his lip as the moments passed, then turned to scan the forest for look-outs. Two dark shapes loomed out of the gloom, and he sprang up, biting back a startled yelp. Then he saw Silk, leading the horses, and breathed a sigh of relief. 

-Are these ours?- 

-No,- Silk answered. -I couldn't find ours, so I took the liberty of borrowing two from those fine gentlemen.- 

Urgit snorted with laughter, but swung on his new horse, and soon they were cantering off through the forest. "So, what did that little venture reveal to us?" he asked his brother, veering to one side to avoid a tree. 

Silk thought, rubbing his long, pointed nose. "That HE, the Karand and Morindim leader, is enlisting everyone; Angaraks, Karands, and Morindim alike. Senji told us there's a force attacking Mal Zeth, and marching down through Gar Og Nadrak, as well as the one we know took over Rak Cthan. Now we know there's also one that was sent to block off the Urga Peninsula." 

"How many men can this madman HAVE, anyway?" Urgit asked, almost to himself. 

* * *

Townspeople streamed in the gate of Boktor, called in from their farms and the surrounding villages to take refuge in the walled capital. Wagons filled with supplies, children, women, and old ones trundled through the gate, directed by a few Drasnians who pointed the way to the open area where they could stay. 

In the opposite direction, out the gate, poured streams of armed men: Rivans cloaked in gray, their grim faces quelling any frivolous emotion; burly Chereks clinking in chain-mail, their axes and huge swords swinging at their belts, wild grins on their faces; Drasnian pikemen, their wiry forms dwarfed by their huge weapons; lean Algars mounted on horses, their dark scalp-locks flowing in the breeze; strict formations of Tolnedran legions, their golden armor gleaming in the sunlight; clanking Mimbrates covered in thick steel; green-clad Asturians twanging their bows eagerly, and testing the tips of sharpened arrows; and here or there a Nyissan, their shaved heads reflecting light, laden down with bags of powder that would have strange and unmentionable effect on any brave enough to stand in their way. 

In the distance the great mounds of earth were visible, barring the way across the North Caravan Route. Pits dug in front had been lined with sharp stakes and covered with brush, and barriers of tangled tree branches were to either side of the road, ideal launching places for the arrows of the Asturians. 

The last of the townspeople disappeared through the gate, and the warriors of the West took up their positions. In the distance a cloud of dust loomed, and they all knew that the inevitable was happening... 

The battle was near at hand. 


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: The world and the characters belong to David Eddings, not me._

* * *

**Chapter 10**

High above the North Caravan Route, a lone falcon circled. Garion looked down at the battleground, his sharp golden eyes picking out every single detail: the tense faces of the western army, the shift and flap of the folds of the black robes of the Morindim. 

"_They don't usually wear those kind of clothes. _" Garion noted, his thought reaching out to his grandfather. 

"_Maybe it has to do with their leader. _" 

Garion scrutinize the black wave carefully, trying to pick out the leader. "_I can't see him._" 

"_Maybe he's hiding among them, or somewhere else."_

"_Maybe._" Garion broke off contact, trying to concentrate on the ground below. Directing a battle from above definitely had its advantages. 

The black-garbed Morindim advanced on the warriors of the West with a strange twisting beat. They would take three measured steps, then spin, their robes whirling out, and kick towards the sky in exact timing, take one step to the side, spin again, and continue the cycle. Garion studied the formation closely, trying to discern the significance, but all he knew was that it seemed sort of ritualistic. They aren't even charging, he thought. They'll know what's happening when the first few fall into the pits. Biting off curses with his beak, he hovered lower, watching carefully. The Morindim were approaching the part of the path where the tree barriers were set to either side. Slowly, slowly, they advanced, until most of them were alongside the barriers. 

"_Now!_" Garion sent the signal to Poledra, who was with the Asturian archers. Suddenly, the front ranks of Morindim seemed to wilt under a rain of arrows. A steady stream poured out of the trees on either side, and the Morindim stopped in their tracks. There was a pause, and then Garion's eyes caught a glimpse of movement at the back of the column. A figure cloaked and hooded like the rest was flanked by another, but when Garion saw these two, it was as if a chill went up his spine. 

"_I see him, Grandfather,_" Garion sent out his thought. 

"_Where?_" 

"_Near the back of the column, on horses. You couldn't see the two mounted ones before because of the way the Morindim were moving. He seems to be giving a signal._" 

Two Morindim walked to the front of the column, bundles of brush in their hands. Suddenly there was a flicker of flame, and the bundles burst into fire. Before Garion realized it, with a swift thrust they sent the burning torches into the trees. There was a dry crackle of flame as the fire sprang swiftly up, and the cries of the Asturians as they fled. The Morindim resumed their march. 

"_This is totally unlike Vo Mimbre,_" muttered Belgarath in Garion's mind. "_There, there was actually noise. Sound. Battle._" 

Garion agreed, silently, but his eyes were still riveted on the Morindim. A few collapsed into the pits with cries, and the Morindim army halted again. Garion swung around, climbing an updraft, and then dived from the height to a lower breeze, trying to get a glimpse of the figure who he had, for an instant, been sure was the leader. Morindim carrying sand bags came up and filled the pits with sand, in a gradual process, as the Alorns and Tolnedrans and Mimbrates behind the earthworks fidgeted and walked up and down impatiently. Then the way was clear to the earthworks. 

The Morindim just stood and waited. There was silence on each side. "_They look like they intend to wait for any other traps to be sprung,_" Garion sent his thought out. 

Belgarath cursed. "_If they just wait there, sooner or later our forces are going to lose control and charge. I'm already straining to hold the Chereks back._" 

And indeed, the Morindim looked as if they intended to wait all day. Hours passed, as Garion circled above, around and around. Finally he saw Belgarath winging up to relieve him. "_You take charge of the Alorns,_" he told the Rivan king. "_I'll watch the battlefield._" 

Garion dove towards the Alorn earthworks, but before he had even reached the ground, there was a loud yell and a platoon of Chereks charged out from behind the earthworks, racing at the Morindim at top speed, yelling. Some of them were even foaming at the mouth. Garion began to swear as he switched back into his real form, and strode to the earthworks to watch. 

The Morindim stood up. They did not move any further. 

"What are they _doing_?" Garion muttered. "This is crazy! This isn't how you fight!" 

But the Chereks were gleeful as they sped screaming at their foe, their huge battleblades raised. Steel flashed in the hands of the Morindim, and Garion suddenly felt a chill strike his heart. They began their twisting dance: three measured steps, the spin, the kick, the step to the side, the spin... and the knives flashed from their hands to imbed themselves in the bodies of the charging Chereks. For a moment nothing took effect. The Chereks yanked the blades out and crashed into the Morindim, their large swords wheeling. Morindim were cut down like hay. Then the Chereks faltered, stiffened, and collapsed. 

Garion stared, in shock. 

"What happened?" asked Barak frantically, coming up behind him. 

"WHAT did you DO!?" Garion yelled at him. "Why did you let them charge like that?" 

"I didn't know!" protested Barak. "They just went!" 

"_GARION!_" It was Belgarath's voice, infuriated. "_Why didn't you stop them?_" 

"_I couldn't, grandfather!_" Garion shouted back, cold fury in his voice. "_I got here too late! What was it? What was on those knives?_" 

"Poison, your Majesty." Garion turned to see Sadi, one long-fingered hand rubbing his shaved head. "It was obviously poison. You saw the way they stiffened. Very fast-acting. It must come from the seven kingdoms of Karand. We don't have anything like it here." 

"_Sadi told me it was poison, Grandfather,_" Garion passed it on, worry in his voice. "_What are we going to do?_" 

Belgarath took a deep breath. "_We're going to send out the Mimbrates. All right, this is what we do..._" 

* * *

Garion circled above in sky, climbing the updrafts, his eyes intently watching the ground below. The Morindim, a sea of rippling black, stood waiting. The forces of the West, in position, tensed themselves. They all waited for the signal, the signal that the _real_ battle was about to begin. And then a horn rang out, the silver note echoing. 

Like a great wave of steel, the Mimbrates pounded out from behind the earthworks, the iron-shod hooves of their war chargers making the ground shake as the dust swirled up. The light glinted off the gleaming armor, throwing a glare in the eyes of the Morindim. Leaping up, the Morindim readied their daggers. And the wave of Mimbrates crashed over them, and the black figures were boiling with silver. Clashes rang as the Morindim fought to drive their poisoned daggers between the joints of the Mimbrate armor, and the Mimbrates crushed them with their huge swords and slammed gauntleted hands down on their skulls. 

Another silver horn rang out, and Drasnian pikemen, clothed in thick leather, pounded out from behind the trees and charged into the fray, their pikes picking out the Morindim who were too distracted to wield their poisoned knives. Black bodies were strewn everywhere, and here and there a horse thrashed in the throes of death. 

A third horn call came, and Asturian arrows swept the rear of the Morindim army, and they ran from the deadly shafts, straight into the arms of the Mimbrates. Garion looked on with approval. The Morindim were being slowly smashed by the armored men and the arrows. The Drasnian pikemen were at risk, of course, but they had willingly volunteered. Garion kept a close eye on the right side of the Morindim army, and saw the Algars gallop alongside, their short cavalry bows firing rapidly. Then the Cherek force charged, now dressed in mail shirts, to batter against the left side. 

"_Ready, Garion?_" asked Aunt Pol's voice in his head. 

"_Yes,_" he answered. The four sorcerers present at the battle(Durnik was staying with his children, and Beltira and Belkira weren't really of a fighting disposition) were going to have a different task. "If you want to get at a snake, cut off its head," as Belgarath had said. 

Garion focused his mind on the idea of a heart faltering and stopping. He felt Belgarath's mind join him, and Poledra and Polgara merge with him. Belgarath was thinking about itches, Aunt Pol was thinking of stomach acid burning a hole in a liver, and Poledra was thinking of a throat being torn open. As a seamless hole, their awareness dove down into the heart of the fray, searching for a certain figure. A figure dressed in a black cloak like any other, but with an evil mind. Garion caught sight of him with his hawk's eyes, and drew their attention to the twisting figure. 

They focused their mind on the leader, and drew in their wills. Garion felt like smirking. This was the end of it. Once the leader of the Morindim was dead, the rest would break and run. They poised to release their combined will. 

"_Wait,_" Poledra's voice came at the last moment. "_There's something strange..._" But it was too late. The will had been released. There was a moment where nothing happened. Then a heavy blow struck them, as if they had run into a brick wall. High in the air, he reeled in place, trying to figure out which way was up. He felt himself falling, falling, falling, the world spinning around and around, and he flung his wings wide desperately and gave a stroke. He found himself hovering barely ten feet above the treetops, and started upward again. He was feeling slightly disoriented, and similar feelings were coming to other parts of his mind--the parts linked to the other three sorcerers. 

"_What was that?_" he finally had enough strength to gasp. 

"_A shield, I think,_" Belgarath said, breathing hard. "_A very strong one._" 

"_So we can't get to the leader,_" Aunt Pol said, anger in her voice. Garion could imagine her steel-gray eyes blazing. "_What's our next step?_" 

"_We attack the army itself,_" Poledra replied grimly. 

"_I have a feeling we're missing something,_" Belgarath said. "_But it's the only way we can win. There are far too many of those Morindim down there to fight them without talent._" 

"_Garion,_" Aunt Pol said then, "_I want you to come down here. I don't want you falling to your death. If the backlash is too hard, you'll lose control of that bird body._" 

"_Yes, Aunt Pol._" Garion slowly circled downward, until he spotted the small forms of his grandmother, grandfather, and aunt, then landed beside them and shifted into his usual form. 

"Now we are ready," Poledra joined their hands. 

"What shall we use, mother?" asked Aunt Pol. 

"Hail, I think, Pol," Belgarath replied. 

"Right." Garion closed his eyes, feeling the hands of Poledra and Aunt Pol in his. They focused their wills. Their minds shooting upwards, they reached into the swollen rainclouds that hovered over the battlefield since almost noon. 

Garion could feel Aunt Pol drawing the warmth out of the air, and a chill spread through them. 

"Burst," murmured Belgarath, and the cloud opened up, huge chunks of ice cascading down from the heavens. The air was thick with them, and Garion opened his eyes, expecting to see the Morindim falling from heavy blows. But the hailstones had stopped a few feet above the combatants, and were resting on mid-air. Belgarath growled. 

"Why don't we just knock them off their feet?" Garion asked, wiping sweat from his face. Although the air was cold, he felt very hot and tired. 

They closed their eyes again, and braced themselves. Garion thought of a huge hand hitting the Morindim. Their will surged outward, and Garion felt it reaching toward the foe. But once again, they slammed into a solid wall of stone. They were all knocked off their feet, and lay on the ground, panting and trying to draw breath. Garion finally was able to sit up, and opened his eyes. 

He froze, staring at the two figures who had ridden off a little distance from the battle. Then he asked quietly, "Grandfather?" 

"What?" groaned Belgarath. 

"I think I know what you were missing." 

"What?" he asked again. 

"The demons." 

Belgarath opened his eyes, then sprang up in utter horror, staring at the massive, towering forms that rose, shimmering, over the boiling battle. Their faces, their forms, struck fear into Garion's heart, and he felt as if his entire body had frozen in stasis. Dimly he realized that Aunt Pol and Poledra had risen and were staring, too. 

The demons. 

* * *

_Sorry if my battle was a little stunted. It was unusual circumstances, you see. And don't worry, there'll be several more. And, people, just because I say I like how many reviews I'm getting doesn't mean you should _stop_ reviewing, you know!_


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Cyradis sat near the window, cradling the small bundle almost reverently. Her eyes and thoughts, however, were not on her newborn child, but on the war waging throughout the world. Her thoughts were on her beloved Zakath, fighting valiantly to defend Mal Zeth, the depopulated city and its residents holding firm against the storm of Morindim. The news that Rak Cthan had been taken had been a shock, as well, and now a heated battle was taking place not ten leagues from here. 

How did such people move so fast? Cyradis wondered. In the brief moment in which she had been connected with her people, the Dals, she had sensed in their group mind a kind of bewildered fascination. These Morindim, and their leader... something was strange. The information the stars had given them had been strange and confusing. But the words they had given her to pass on to the kings of the West: "A great evil moves throughout the mountains. There is one who has great power and who was thought to be dead by all. He is searching for one who is hiding in the west." She felt a chill go through her. 

_"Thought to be dead by all..." _

She herself had never been very good at searching out the meaning behind the words of prophecy. Her job had always been to conceal the facts behind words of that sort. She shivered, though the sun was warm in the room. 

War. She looked down at the tiny, smooth face of the Crown Prince of Mallorea. Terath. It was a name that was slightly Dal and slightly Mallorean. Thinking of the baby's father, longing entered her eyes. Would Zakath ever live to see his newborn son? 

She shook the thought away. Of course he would live. 

_"Thought to be dead by all..."_

Who was thought to be dead by all? Who would be of such importance that everyone would take notice of where he-or she-was? And how could they overlook him or her? The major opponents of the Light Prophecy were all accounted for. Torak? Dead. Zandramas? Obliviated. Zedar? Trapped. Ctuchik? Obliviated. Urvon? Burning in hell. 

Terath gave a little cry, squirming in her arms. With a sigh, Cyradis began to unlace her dress so she could nurse her child. 

* * *

A Cherek warship, smaller than most, sailed into the harbor at Kotu and docked, a rope being tossed over the side, and a sailor leapt to secure it. Two figures on deck paced impatiently, mirror images of each other. As soon as the gangplank was lowered, Silk and Urgit sprang down it impatiently, striding out of the quays and down the street, heading for a quiet, dirty part of town. 

"And you know this man who'll sell us horses," Urgit repeated for the fourth time. "He won't scalp us?" 

"Urgit, Urgit," Silk answered, with a flash of white teeth. "Since when is there a man who can scalp US?" 

Urgit frowned impatiently. "But I don't know Western currency very well." 

"Then allow me," Silk swept him a bow. 

"Aren't you worried we won't get there before the battle starts?" Urgit asked, lowering his voice. 

Silk dropped his sardonic air. "Of course," he replied quietly. "Deadly worried. If a man startles me in any way right now, my nerves are stretched so fine that I think I'd cut his throat before I realized he was a friend." He began to walk faster, and his brother unconsciously lengthened his steps to match his. "I'm worried about Velvet, I'm worried about our child." He bit his lip. "This is why I never wanted to fall in love. This helplessness, actually CARING about someone. I can't live with it. I can't deal with it." Then he grinned again. "Besides, why shouldn't we have some fun on the way?" 

Soon, Urgit was watching curiously as Silk haggled back and forth with the owner of the horses. He had thought that Kheldar would be forced to settle for a high price because of their hurry, but his sly brother had adopted a careless, casual air, and the owner saw that. The owner pointed out what strong, sturdy working beasts they were at every opportunity, and Silk countered by saying that they really should go to the nearest Algar embassy, since their horses were so much better. 

He sighed theatrically. "The price of horses is dropping all the time, friend. They seem to be getting more and more common nowadays. You can buy them almost anywhere." His long nose was twitching slightly. 

The owner of the horses watched him with narrow eyes, then replied casually, "If I had a dragon or a huge bird I'd sell them to you, but I don't." His fingers were moving almost idly, and Urgit watched them with interest as the two prattled on about other ways of transportation._ -You seem to be in a hurry, Kheldar. Do you really have the time to stand around haggling like this?- _

-All the time in the world, friend. Why don't we just skip through all this and get down to the offers?- 

-Very well. Five gold coins.- 

-Five gold coins! You've got to be joking. For these nags?- 

-They're dependable creatures, Kheldar. You can rely on them.- 

-Drokev,- Silk's fingers tilted sarcastically, _-five gold coins is enough to feed a family of seven for a year. I'm not buying mere horses for that price. I'll offer a gold coin.- _

-A gold coin! Are you trying to rob me?- 

-Obviously.- 

-Very funny, Kheldar. I can't let you have these horses for less than four gold coins. I need the money to pay off my debts.- 

-Drokev, you know you've got many other ways to pay off debts. Two gold coins.- 

-Why don't we just say three gold coins, to save argument?- 

-Done. Drasnian coins, of course.- 

"WHAT?" yelled Drokev, out loud. 

Silk smirked at him. "This is Kotu, Drokev. Kotu is in Drasnia, and it's only fair we should use the national currency. Our national currency." He opened his money pouch and gave the fuming man his money. "Thanks for the horses, Drokev," he tossed over his shoulder as he led them off. "We're in a hurry, you know." 

Drokev began to swear. 

Silk laughed lightly as they walked away. "My, my, wasn't that fun?" 

"I don't get it," Urgit said. "What was that about Drasnian coins?" 

"He assumed that we were bargaining with Tolnedran currency, since most people do. Drasnian coins are worth far less." 

"You're a bad man, Kheldar," Urgit said reprovingly. 

"I know." Silk smiled again. "That look on his face!" 

* * *

Frozen in place, the western forces stared at the towering figures, fear piercing their hearts like darts of cold ice. Garion felt a terrifying helplessness. They were doomed, all of them. The demons lifted their heads and let out ear-shattering bellows, their shimmering forms towering a hundred feet in the air. Garion covered his ears desperately, trying to keep his eardrums from being shattered. 

There was utter silence, the silence of despair. 

And then Belgarath began to laugh. 

It was a long, ringing laugh of surprise, and it echoed throughout the army, seeming to stir them from their stupor. Garion stared at his grandfather. Had he gone mad? Peals of laughter came from the old man, and he was doubling over, laughing so hard he could barely stand. 

"All right, Old Wolf." Aunt Pol drew herself up, her steely eyes blazing, the lock at her brow glowing with incandescent fury. "What's so funny?" 

"They're..." More laughter. He fought to get out the words. "They're..." He began to laugh harder, and managed to gasp: "Illusions!" 

They all stared at him, then turned to look at the towering, shimmering figures. They were _real_, so real that the cold chill was still in their hearts. It wasn't possible. Illusions? 

"Think about it." Belgarath wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "They'd have to be directed by a demon lord, and there aren't any major ones left. Both Nahaz and Morja have been killed or sent back where they came from, and the other demon lords are too minor to raise so many demons. The Morindim are the ones we assumed to be raising the demons, and they aren't even doing anything." He waved at the other figure beside the Morindim leader. "That's the one who's casting them. He's good, very good. I'm guessing he's a renegade Grolim who was found by this leader of the Morindim and trained. But they're still illusions." 

Garion's eyes were riveted on the Mimbrates, the Algars, the Chereks, the Drasnians. "Grandfather, that doesn't help us." They turned to look at him. "We know they're illusions, but our warriors don't." He pointed at the towering, shimmering figures. "They're too real. It doesn't make any difference that we know what they are if the ones that are fighting don't." 

Belgarath had stopped laughing. They were all silent, staring at the towering forms that they had feared for so long, only to find out they were illusions, and then to discover the knowledge was no good. 

The demons took an earth-shaking step forward. 

And the warriors of the west turned and fled. 

Screaming, crying, weeping in horror, the Drasnians and Chereks ran. The Algars, their faces deathly pale, galloped away from the battlefields. The rain of Asturian arrows faltered and stopped. And the Mimbrates, their eyes wide in shock and horror, spun and retreated, for the first time in the history of Arendia. 

The waves of Morindim black began marching forward, an inexorable tide of steady black. 

"Boktor," murmured Poledra. "Boktor is doomed." 

They watched as the Morindim streamed past...and turned off the North Caravan Route. They cut through the trees at a southwestern angle, marching away from Boktor and in the general direction of the Great Southern Road. Column upon column, row upon row. The demons shifted and vanished, and then there was only black. 

Garion looked out to where the two mounted figures had been before. But they had vanished, possibly into the sea of black. 

"They weren't going to Boktor," murmured Polgara. Her gaze turned to the heaps upon heaps of bodies: Cherek, Drasnian, Algar, Mimbrate. The Tolnedrans had been kept in reserve, farther down the North Caravan Route, thankfully. But hundreds of Alorns and Arends lay dead about a blood-stained battlefield. For nothing. The Morindim had marched on. 

Garion, suddenly feeling a thousand years old, and very tired, asked wearily, "If they're not going to Boktor, where are they going?" 

Belgarath's eyes were shadowed. "We'll have to find out." 

* * *

_If anyone has the slightest REAL inkling who the leader of the Morindim is, something that fits in, don't you dare say it in a review! Just keep it to yourself, and there's various hints if you're right. And see, I DID deal with the demon problem. The demon problem was the one that made me choose this plot, actually._


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Rocks pounded into the walls of Mal Zeth relentlessly, like a mighty hammer steadily hitting the tall barrier. On the battlements of the city wall, Zakath leaned out, trying to gauge the distance between the catapults and the walls. 

"A hundred yards or so, wouldn't you say, Senji?" he asked, turning to the club-footed sorcerer beside him. 

Senji looked calculatingly at the distance. "Yes, that looks about right. Do you think the Mallorean bows will be able to reach that far?" 

"It doesn't have to be arrows," Zakath said, rubbing his chin. "Small catapults shouldn't take that long to construct, and if we rain showers of pebbles down on them, I think they'll lose their enthusiasim fairly quickly. Where's my engineers?" he shouted down to the streets of Mal Zeth. "Hey, you! Where's my engineers?" 

Senji was only half-listening as he contemplated the rows of Karands. There had to be someway to make them come closer. They could also fire burning pitch, he decided. And then when the Karands rushed up to put it out, they could riddle the ranks with arrows. He squinted at the orderly columns again. If they fired huge rocks into the center of that, it would either cause havoc or kill several. 

"What? I don't care! So? I need those engineers!" Zakath was shouting. 

"Zakath," Senji said, drawing his attention. "If our catapults fire huge rocks into those orderly lines, it'll be very destructive to them. And if we take advantage of the havoc to burn the catapults..." 

"Even better," Zakath said, "We could aim the rocks for the rear of the horde, and when they cluster closer to the walls to avoid the rocks, we can riddle them with arrows." 

"Or we can aim the rocks near the front of the horde, and while they draw back, a horseman can ride out there and set fire to the catapults." 

"Too risky," the Mallorean emperor decided. "Let's aim for the rear, and get the archers ready, and then we can fire burning pitch to the front, between arrows. Let's turn some Karands into comets." He looked out at the vast sea of black. "We might see if there's a volunteer to try to ride out there and burn the catapults. A burning arrow might do it." 

The engineers rushed up the stairs to the battlements, panting with the effort of running. "Your---your imperial majesty! We're here!" They sagged against the stone battlement. 

"We need a catapult," Zakath explained. "Several catapults. One or two of them have got to be strong enough to throw heavy rocks to the rear of that mass, and the rest need to toss burning pitch onto those catapults there." 

"Why don't you just sent out a horseman to fire a burning arrow into them, your Imperial Majesty?" 

"We've heard strange reports about their fighting tactics. We don't want to take any risks, no matter how many people are involved. As long as we're behind the walls, and they're outside of the walls, we can fight with catapults." Zakath turned to gaze out over the Karands, then said calmly, "Duck." 

They all dropped to a shelter behind the battlements. There was a reverberating crash as one rock struck the battlements near them, and another as a rock soared over the walls and plunged to the streets inside the wall, denting the pavements and causing a road blockage. They all got up again, and the lead engineer asked, "Do we want mangonels or trebuchets for the catapults, your Majesty?" 

Zakath thought. "Mangonels, I think. They're securely anchored to a base, instead of pivoting on a board. Easier to use on the walls." 

The engineer drew out a piece of paper. "So, your Majesty, we'll have the anchor here..." 

Senji only half-listened as the engineers and Zakath bent over the design, staring sightlessly out over the walls. He could feel his Master's comforting, warm presence in the back of his mind, and he reached out to that presence now, feeling lost and alone. 

_"It seems hopeless, Master,"_ he said to that corner of his mind where Eriond spoke to him. _"There are so many of them, and they seem invincible. They don't even have regular desires. We don't know what they want or who they are. They don't seem to want their nation back, they just seem to be attacking us because they want to." _

"Patience, my son," Eriond's voice was warm and Senji felt as if a soft blanket had been wrapped around him. _"All shall be made clear in time." _

"I feel so helpless, Master. This isn't an EVENT. Each side is not equal, not to be decided by a Choice." 

"No. And so it shall be possible for us to have an unseen advantage, us to have the better odds." 

Senji gave a long, shuddering sigh. _"I'm not ready for this, Master. I've been a disciple of yours for only a year or two. I can't handle this constant responsibility, this constant stress." _

"It will all be over eventually, my son. Whether for good or for worse, it shall be over." 

"Where is Pelath, Master?" Senji asked sadly. _"I want to be with my brother, to know that he's there to support me. I need someone to care for me now." _

"You shall be together again, Senji. Soon, you shall rejoin your brother." 

And the voice was gone, and Senji returned to the world. Turning, he found that the engineers were already supervising the construction of mangonels, and several bendable tree trunks were anchored against the wall, bent backward, and lashed in place. A cradle had been woven with ropes in which the rocks would be placed, and rubble was being hoisted to the wall to load the catapults with. Archers were already lining the walls, their faces grim. Bundles of brush were brought up, and doused with oil. 

Zakath was looking at them with satisfaction, and he turned to Senji. "Does it look all right, Senji? Do you think it would work?" 

Senji cast an appraising glance, pushing his feelings to the back of his mind. "You might want to find something else to cradle the burning brush, otherwise it'll burn through the ropes and fall short." 

Zakath frowned. "Yes. Blacksmith!" he shouted down from the wall. "We need scrap metal!" 

Weaving past the tense archers, ducking to avoid the catapults, Senji moved down to an empty part of the wall, looking out at the mass of black. He ignored the shudder as another rock crashed into the walls, and gazed instead out to the south, where the Dalasian Mountains loomed. 

He wondered about Zakath's child, glancing back at the busy Mallorean emperor. He didn't want to remind Zakath of it, but he was glad that Cyradis wasn't here in the city. At least the heir to the throne would be safe. Unless it was a girl... Senji frowned. No, usually first-borns were boys. Probably one of Garion's daughters---he was supposed to have a lot, after all---would marry Zakath's son. Just the right alliance to seal their friendship. He thought. If Zakath had a daughter, she could marry Geran. How old was Geran now? Six? 

Senji mused about all the people Garion's daughters could marry. Urgit's son, Zakath's sons, Hettar's sons, Taiba's sons... Senji sighed. Everyone was getting married and having children. He tried to think of someone who wasn't. Unrak and Kheva were unattached. But they wouldn't be for long, he suspected. 

He sighed again. Everyone was married. Belgarath was married to Poledra. Polgara was married to Durnik. Beldin had been mated to Vella before they departed. Garion was married to Ce'Nedra. Barak was married to Merel. Mandorallen was married to that Mimbrate lady...Nerina. Lelldorin was married to Ariana. Hettar was married to Adara. Relg was married to Taiba. Silk was married to Velvet. Urgit was married to Prala. Zakath was married to Cyradis. And on and on and on. 

Senji turned to go back to talk to Zakath, but a shadowy form solidified in front of him. Senji recognized the young king of Riva, who he had met when his Master and he had gone around and visited all the kings. Garion was a nice young man. "What is it, Garion?" he asked. "We heard that the Morindim were marching down from the north. Have they attacked a capital?" 

"That and more," Garion's voice was grim. "You'd better get Zakath, Senji. He'll want to hear this." 

Senji darted over and brought back Zakath at a run. "Garion!" the Mallorean gasped out. "What's the urgent news?" 

"Listen carefully," Garion's image said. "I can't keep this up too long. It's quite a distance. The Morindim marched down the North Caravan Route towards Boktor, and we set up a barricade to block their way. We also got a sample of how they fight. They have this strange ritual dance, and at a certain point, they throw daggers. The daggers are poisoned, and when it hits someone, they die almost instantly. No one can get near them except the Mimbrates. Grandfather, Grandmother, Aunt Pol and I tried to attack the leader of the Morindim with sorcery, but he seems to have some kind of barrier or something. It's strange, but we can't even touch him. The Orb refuses to help. He's extending the barrier over the army, too. Then he brought the demons. It turns out they're illusions, but our soldiers didn't know that, and they ran. We thought Boktor was doomed, but the Morindim turned and started southwest, in the general direction of the Great Southern Road across a piece of Algaria. We don't know where they're going now, but we think we might be able to break through the barrier on the army if we have more people, more wills." Garion looked at Zakath. "I'm afraid we're going to need Senji, Zakath, and Pelath as well, old friend. We're going to need all we can." 

Zakath bit his lip. "That leaves us terribly vunerable." 

Garion nodded. "But we're sure this is the main invasion. The attacks on Rak Cthan and Mal Zeth are just distractions---dangerous distractions, but distractions anyway---to keep the Mallorean and Murgo army from joining our forces." 

Zakath nodded. "It seems as if the sorcery on the other side is concentrated in your Morindim army. "I think Pelath's in the Dalasian Protectorates, and I'll send Senji." He looked at Senji. "Can you contact your Master and tell him to send word to Pelath to go to Boktor?" 

Senji smiled. "I'm fairly sure he already has." 

Garion nodded. "Good, then." He paused. "Congratulations on your son, by the way. He's tiny, but very cute." Then the image was gone. 

"My---my son?" gasped Zakath. 

Senji smiled. "Congratulations as well, your Majesty." 

* * *

A week later, Urgit sighed as he left the room where Velvet and Silk had been, his eyes sad. Barak was outside the door, and looked at him questioningly. 

"He's with her now," the king of the Murgos told him. "The loss of their baby hit them hard." 

Barak bowed his head. "As much as we all made jokes about Silk being a father, we still cared about the child," he said quietly. 

"They knew that," Urgit said, walking with the huge Cherek down the hall. "Polgara was there too, comforting them. Liselle was crying, and Kheldar's eyes---" he broke off, biting his lip. 

"I know," Barak told him. "No one can ever foresee a miscarriage. I guess it was just something that had to happen." 

"I wish Prala was here now," Urgit said sadly. "Maybe she could comfort her friend." 

"Or Ce'Nedra," Barak rumbled. "The little queen would have known what it felt like." 

"Yes," Urgit assented. 

They walked down the hall in silence, their shoulders heavy with the weight of the sorrow they had witnessed. They came upon Senji in the hall, who had arrived just the day before, and he knew what had happened. 

"Did they?" he asked quietly. 

"Yes," Urgit replied. "They lost the baby." 

Senji gave a deep sigh, and turned to deliver the news to Pelath. As they entered the room where the kings and visitors were waiting, everyone turned to look at them. 

"They lost the baby," Urgit said quietly. "Polgara did everything she could, but it died." 

Senji walked over to stand near Pelath, taking comfort in each other's presence. Beltira and Belkira began to cry, and Poledra walked over to embrace them quietly. Belgarath put a hand on Belkira's shoulder, his eyes old and tired. Hettar's normally impassive face was sorrowful, and Korodullin and Mayaserena drew closer to each other, taking comfort in each other. Cyradis had tears streaming down her face as well, and Garion moved over to hold her in his arms like a sister, knowing that she cried for Silk and for Zakath, and wanting to reassure her that his friend would be all right. Sadi, Porenn, Varana, Anheg, Cho-Hag, Fulrach, and the Gorim bowed their heads, and Durnik's honest face was sad. Unnoticed by all but one, Ayan's tear also trickled down her cheek, and Kheva tentatively put his arms around her, unsure of what to do, but also having the strange feeling that it was very important to him that Ayan would not be unhappy. He remembered that she was only fourteen, after all, for all that she acted older, and she was just a girl. She began to cry into his chest, and he held her gently, unaware that his mother's eyes were on them, sadly wise. 

They grieved for Prince Kheldar and Margravine Liselle of Drasnia, and their tears fell like a gentle rain from a sorrowing sky. 


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

** Chapter 13**

"Sendaria?" yelled Garion. He got up and began to pace back and forth. "Why Sendaria? Why not Algaria? Boktor? Nyissa? Marag? Why Sendaria? Even Riva! Just not Sendaria!" 

"How should I know?" Javelin asked. "They're moving down the Great Southern Road, and Muros is at the other end. It's obvious they're going to Sendaria." 

Garion growled deep in his throat. "We've got to head them off! We've got to stop them!" 

"That's what we've been trying to do, Garion," Varana said patiently. 

Garion fell into a chair. "Sendaria has almost no defense. No army, no militia, no nothing! They're not helpless, but they're not ready!" 

"It looks like I don't have to support my case," Fulrach murmured to Cho-Hag. 

"Garion was born and raised in Sendaria, after all," the quiet king of the Algars said, shrugging. 

"Garion, we'll try to get the legions to curve around and intercept them, but it might be difficult." 

"Wait." Belgarath stepped forward. "I have an idea. We'll march the Mimbrates, the Tolnedrans, the Chereks, Rivans, Drasnians, and Algars home. We" He indicated the nine sorcerers present, "will go to Aldurford, to try to bar the way of the army with our skills. Nine of us will surely be able to stop the army and defeat the leader." 

Varana frowned. "Really, we shouldn't rely on--" 

Anheg, seeing the problem, intercepted, "We can march the forces to the Sendarian border, just in case. If for some strange reasons your talents fail, or you get really tired or delayed, there'll still be a final barrier to stop them." 

Belgarath threw up his hands. "All right, all right, but it'll be a waste of time. Two sorcerers, one sorcerer, whatever, and their illusions will be no match for us." 

Varana snorted. "We need a plan of battle anyway. What if Durnik there trips and falls off a cliff and you're all delayed because you're so worried that he's going to die? I say we set up a advancing line of legionnaires, with their shields held in front of them to deflect the daggers. Then others can poke their spears out through the gaps. Mimbrate knights can harry the soldiers from the sides, and Asturians can fire over the heads of both to the rear. The Chereks can try to get to the sorcerers when they aren't noticing, and if they can't, they can bash through the rear. We'll grind them up against the Tolnedrans and the Chereks, or we can dig a pit in the space where we're forcing them, and have the Nyissans toss powder down on them." 

Anheg rubbed his chin, tracing a map with his finger on the table. "There's several passes in the mountains where the Great Southern Road makes its way to Muros. It shouldn't be too hard to trigger a few avalanches there, and also rain arrows down from cover. Where the pass widens, we can charge head-on with the Mimbrates, and attack from behind with the Tolnedrans, using that shield formation you were talking about." 

"We can squash them in the middle, with arrows raining down the sides of the pass to keep any from climbing," mused Kheva. "Interesting." 

"You're going to let them come into Sendaria?" asked Garion, his voice going up a notch. 

"A league or so," Varana said, running a hand through his iron-gray hair. 

"You're letting INVADERS march into SENDARIA?" repeated Garion, almost yelling now. 

"Garion, please," Anheg told him. "It's not like we're telling a thousand Sendars to go distract the Morindim by offering themselves up as sacrifices." 

"Morindim don't make sacrifices," Belgarath said. 

"That's not the point," Anheg said, annoyed. "The point is that letting Morindim march a few leagues into uninhabited mountains does not cause any serious problems." 

"But you're letting them into Sendaria," protested Garion, unable to say why he felt this way, but feeling it all the same. 

"Garion, calm down," Fulrach told him. "They probably won't get that far, since you sorcerers have enough power to stop them in their tracks." 

Garion nodded dubiously. "Yes, I suppose so." 

* * *

"Any word?" the figure's ice blue eyes bored out over the landscape. 

The demon illusionist paused, not sure how the leader would take the news. "None, my lord. It seems your enemy has taken refuge deep in Sendaria." 

"He is wise," the figure hissed. "Very wise. But I shall come for him. These pitiful sorcerers and their spells, these incompetent beserkers and their armies, they shall not stand in my way. I shall seek him out and find him, and then I shall destroy him." 

"He will not escape you again, my lord." 

"No. We have played this game for a long time, my faithful servant. A very long time. At last, it shall end." 

"In your victory." 

"Your trust in me is flattering, my faithful servant. Yes, of course in my victory. I have always been the stronger. That is why he hid from me, hid for many years. Sendaria!" he spat. "I should have guessed long before. Sendaria is a peaceful country, a country that makes no distinction between race, or whether a person has none, a country deep in the heart of the West." 

"Belgarion the Overlord was raised in Sendaria, my lord. He has great attachment to it, and so would defend it all the more." 

The figure nodded, a slow assent. His dark, lank hair blew about his face, dark lines on the ivory skin. "Yes, that too. My enemy is clever, very clever. But he did not think I would bring an army after him." 

"Who could have expected that, my lord? He may be clever in knowing what to do in the moment, but your mind soars above all others, seeing ahead." 

The figure laughed, a surprisingly neutral sound. "Nice phrasing, my faithful servant." His expression turned to longing. "It has been so long..." 

* * *

_I guess I could have put this chapter with the one before it, but when I added the thirteenth chapter I thought it should kind of be a chapter in itself. As I said before, if you know or have a very good idea who HE is, don't say so in a review. I want it to be a surprise, and you can gloat in you knowing when no one else does. I need to know how I'm doing so far, though._


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

** Chapter 14**

Nine hawks flew in formation in the sky above the Morindim's marching army. 

On the ground, the leader of the Morindim's eyes bored up into the flying birds of prey. He could feel the presence of the demon-caster near. 

"My lord, hawks do not fly in formation like that." 

"Obviously." A thin smile curled the leader's lips. "They think to stop us." He bent his head, dark lank hair falling like about his face. "Let me concentrate." 

"Yes, my lord." The servant's eyes were on the hawks circling above, watching their every move. They were almost specks in the sky, but specks that somehow conveyed threat simply by their presence. The servant shuddered. Aldur's servants were strong, very strong. He had encountered them only once before, in the Battle of Vo Mimbre, and as he was only a Grolim at that time, his skills had been crushed by their power. Could HE really defeat them? His eyes went to the figure, drawn into himself. Then a confident expression filled his eyes. HE was HIMSELF, after all. No man alive could stand against him. 

In the sky above, the nine sorcerers circled, their sharp golden eyes scanning the army. 

_"How are we going to do this?"_ Senji asked. 

_"We have to stop them, right?"_ asked Garion. _"Not just kill them, decimate them, etc. We need to stop them." _

"Which could perhaps be the hardest thing of all," Pelath murmured. 

_"Why is that?"_ Senji asked his brother, curiously. 

Pelath's voice held a shrug. _"I do not know. I say what comes to me."_

Belgarath sighed. _"Mystics. Well, it's obvious we need to construct a barrier of pure will, to bring them to a halt."_ A image of a shimmering barrier came into their minds, and they bent to work. Garion drew in his will and formed a long wall, solid as rock, with pure power, and he felt the other sorcerer's layers back it up. Then their eyes focused on the real world, and they watched as the Morindim slowly advanced on their barrier. 

Garion wondered if they would feel it, and started to brace himself, just in time. He felt a horrible shock knock his hawk's body fully a meter backwards, and the barrier of will his mind was focused on buckled. He strained against the terrible force battering at it as he tumbled through the air, desperately trying to keep the wall together. He could feel the other parts of the wall buckling as well, and saw in a flash a glittering arrow-shaped shield covering the Morindim, pushing at the wall with appalling strength. He let out a screech of agony, and felt the barrier tear apart. 

A shrieking, tearing noise ripped through his mind, and he fought the urge to clap nonexistent hands over his ears. The barrier was falling, fading. And he was falling, too, he realized, finally righting the hawk's body and swooping up an updraft. About him he saw his fellow sorcerers. Belgarath, Polgara, and Poledra had recovered, and were diving in a triangle formation after the plummeting Durnik. Beltira and Belkira, tangled together, were fighting to gain control again, and Senji and Pelath were still falling. As Garion watched, a feeling of nausea coming to his stomach and dizziness to his head, they swooped up and around again, climbing slowly. Soon the nine hawks had joined together again, their golden eyes glittering with fury, feathered chests heaving with strain. 

_"We've got to try again,"_ were Belgarath's only words, his voice cold with icy fury. 

Garion groaned in exhaustion and pain. _"Grandfather, remember the shield from the hailstones, and the shield around the leader? We're not going to be able to do it." _

"We are_ going to be able to do it. There are nine of us, over double the amount we had before. We're going to erect another wall."_

They went through the same process, their minds quailing at the thought of the dreadful force breaking through again. And the Morindim advanced on the new barrier. 

On the ground below, the leader watched carefully through narrowed eyes at the hawks above, gauging the time when they would regroup to construct another obstacle. When they rejoined formation, his arrowhead narrowed out into a long lance, invisible to his Morindim, but clear to the ice-blue eyes of HIM. 

The demon-caster rode behind, watching the tiny specks be torn apart, then join together in formation. From beneath his hood, he cast worried looks at his leader, afraid the strain would be too much. There was nine of them, after all. Could his power over-ride that of nine others? He himself could not help his leader. This kind of sorcery was not his. And was not that of the nine sorcerers, either. That was perhaps why they did not realize they would not be able to destroy HIM. 

The demon-caster arranged the folds of his black robe, wondering again what would happen to the Morindim and himself when the leader finally found his enemy. They would be forgotten, most probably, as the two eternal enemies battled it out. Maybe one of them would die. Maybe both of them would die. Both were very possible. And if HE won, would he be rewarded? The demon-caster shook the thought away. He had not joined with HIM for that purpose. He had joined with HIM to use his talent, to be at the side of the most powerful being, aside from the gods, in the universe, not to get a reward. Still, it would be nice... 

The demon-caster's thoughts veered back to the circling hawks. He closed his eyes and reached out, feeling their barrier, and the closeness of the lance-head to it. He felt it shudder as the lance-head struck it, a shaking shudder that ran through the barrier. He felt it buckle and break yet again, and turned his eyes up to see the hawks reeling apart again. 

In the sky, Garion fought to get his breath, pushing down the horrible nauseating feeling that made him feel like was going to lose his meal. But did hawks ever vomit? He didn't know, of course, but that was not the task at hand. Disoriented, they joined again, remarshalling their forces. 

_"It's not going to work, Belgarath,"_ Senji said. _"He's too strong." _

"How is it possible for him to be too strong?" burst out Belgarath. _"He's only one man! How can he oppose all nine of us?" _

"We're on the defensive?" asked Garion. _"Maybe if we attack him, we'll get an advantage." _

"Let's pound on the barrier," Durnik said, ever practical. _"Like a hammer." _

"Why is it always hammers?" asked Senji. 

_"Would you rather it be fishing poles?"_ Garion asked. 

Aunt Pol sighed. 

_"Hammers,"_ Belgarath said. _"Right, everyone now."_

They threw their wills at the lance-like barrier, slammed into its slick glassy surface. Garion backed up and battered it again with his mind, imagining a hammer pounding on a sheet of metal. He felt the barrier give slightly. 

_"Everyone at once!"_ Belgarath yelled. 

Garion felt exultation as he hurled himself at the barrier again. They were going to do it! They were going to-- 

They crashed into the barrier, and felt it bend, but it did not give. 

_"Almost!"_ Belgarath was fairly whirling in the air with rage. _"So close!" _

"Belgarath," Pelath's voice said quietly, _"If we can't stop him, the forces in the mountains of Sendaria won't either."_

They all fell silent. 

_"We've got to break through the barrier!"_ Garion cried out. _"If we don't, there's nothing that can stop them! Nothing!" _

"Garion, calm down!" Aunt Pol's voice was commanding. 

_"No! Why should I calm down? Nine powerful sorcerers can't stop an army of Morindim, the biggest threat Sendaria has ever known! This isn't Vo Mimbre! Drasnia was something that was a tragedy, but we still had a chance! We still had that third day! Now, we have nothing! We have no even odds! We're helpless! Helpless!"_ He threw his mind at the barrier again, again and again, not hearing Aunt Pol's voice telling him to stop, not hearing Beltira and Belkira trying to soothe him, not hearing Senji and Pelath clinging to Belgarath, trying to find someway of insuring that what he'd said wasn't true, that there was something they could still do, somehow they could stop the army. 

But there was nothing. Garion knew his words were true, with a terrible knell that could make a man die of despair. 

They had survived Torak. They had survived the War of the Gods, the Battle of Vo Mimbre, the Battle of Thull Mardu. They had survived Zandramas. All to have all be lost to an army of Morindim, who they had never considered a threat, never considered anything more than madmen afraid of the things they worshiped. An army of Morindim and their leader. 

Sendaria was doomed, and the rest of the West with it. 


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Durnik stared out into the dark night, silently awake as he contemplated many things. Polgara shifted in his arms restlessly, and he looked at her, half amazed that she really loved him, that she was really married to him. He remembered the first time he had seen her: carrying a little bundle of a baby, leading a nanny goat on a string, the same dark hair and glowing white lock, her eyes lined with a strange sadness and grief. 

He had fallen in love with her then, though he hadn't known it. He hadn't realized how he felt for her until gradually he noticed that he was always watching her, always looking at her. It wasn't a aggressive or noticeable love. It was just something in the way he felt when he looked at her, something of awe and respect. As the little Garion had gotten older, he had hung around his smithy a lot, always asking questions, always curious, his sandy hair flopping untidily over his forehead and his serious eyes watching him. 

Pol had come sometimes to drag Garion away, apologizing for him bothering the smith, but he had only shrugged and said it was no problem. Anything for you, he had thought, looking at her tall, proud form and those eyes that had seemed to hold centuries in them. She was a great lady, he knew. He didn't know how he knew it, but somehow she was part of this world and another at the same time. Outwardly, he had been as practical as ever, mending horseshoes with his usual skill. But he had always watched her. 

Durnik remembered the time Garion had fallen into the pond, and he had been forced to rescue the little boy as he sunk after being clobbered on the head with a log from the raft. How Pol's eyes had flashed as she looked at the dripping little boy! But he knew she was only angry because of how much she loved the little boy, and how he had recklessly endangered himself. 

Durnik's mind passed over the events following their departure from Faldor's farm, how they always seemed to be following something that no one could see, how Pol took on another identity, and somehow seemed to drop the façade of a farm cook and become the great lady he had always known she was. The discovery that she was Polgara the Sorceress did not surprise him, he had known there was always something about her. It didn't matter what the world called her, she was just Pol. 

And Garion. A smile came to Durnik's eyes as he remembered how the young man had first found out he was the long-lost Rivan king, his dismay and uncertainty. Durnik had been rather startled, at first, that the little boy who used to scrub pots was now a king, but he took it all in stride, always fixing his eyes on the star that had drawn him on, with this strange group, involved in strange events. 

Durnik remembered the Battle of Thull Mardu, and Cthol Mishrak, and how he had felt a burning rage at Zedar as he had insulted Pol, how he had leapt at the sorcerer, and the rushing darkness that overcame him. His mind skipped ahead to when he had awoken, and found that he had begun his second life, and Pol loved him, and she was going to be his forever. And the growing feeling that he had felt pushing at him from inside, and how Belgarath, his father-in-law, had showed him how to use that feeling, that he too could do beautiful things with his mind and his will. 

He had brought up Eriond, who was now the God of the Angaraks, been almost a father to him, as he and Pol had lived in her mother's cottage together. And he had left once again on another quest, to approach the final confrontation of the Light and the Dark. He remembered his mind opening to encompass new things, at Kell and as they traveled, and he remembered the warm, wonderful feeling he had felt as he had defeated Nahaz and had become Aldur's disciple, and finally found his place. 

And the birth of his twins. Durnik smiled as he thought of them, little Belgarik and Poldara, dancing with each other around the great Tree in the Vale. His smile slowly faded as his mind roamed back over his memories. Was it really him? Had he really lived through all that, done all that. He didn't feel as if he had changed at all. And yet he had. 

A soft glow came to the area left of the bed, and Durnik raised himself slightly as the misty form of Eriond took shape. The young god smiled slightly at the smith, his face portraying the innocence that it had held since he was a little boy. 

"Don't wake her," he said softly, motioning to Pol. Then his voice was grave. "I've come to ask you something, Durnik. I feel you're the one who I should ask permission to do so. It's the only way we'll be able to save the world from these Morindim." 

"Of course, then," Durnik said, puzzled. "I wouldn't hold back." 

"Let me explain first, old friend. This will not be an easy decision." 

Durnik listened, and as he did, his face was grave as well. 

* * *

"No!" raged Belgarath. "Absolutely not! I'm not going to do it!" 

"You're the only one who can, Belgarath," Eriond told him, glowing slightly. His face was serious, yet reflected with sadness and innocence. "Durnik was the one who should decide, and he has said yes." He went on in a quieter tone, "It means saving the world from the Morindim, Belgarath. I know that what happened in the past was horrible, but we can't change that." 

"NO!" roared Belgarath. "To let him loose on the world again!" 

"He did what he had to do, Belgarath. Torak's gone. He holds no more sway over him. And he's the only one who can help us now." 

"He won't help us," Belgarath snarled. "You let him loose, the world's doomed." 

"You don't let him loose, the world's doomed anyway," Eriond said calmly. "I know him, Belgarath. You know him, though you don't want to admit it." 

Belgarath bit his lip, searching for a way out. "Pol won't allow it." 

"Durnik talked to her." 

"Why did _Durnik_ agree to this?" asked Belgarath, pacing back and forth. "He, of all people..." 

"He knows what has to be done, Belgarath. He's got a great sense of responsibility. He's willing to give up personal feelings to save the world." 

Belgarath sunk into a chair. "You've got me backed into a corner, don't you?" He reached for a tankard of ale and took a long drink, shuddering a little at the bitter taste. "All right, I'll do it." 

"What?" asked Garion, walking into the room. "What are we going to do?" 

Eriond turned to him, his face calm. "We're going to save the world, Garion. We're going to get the tenth sorcerer." 

"You don't mean-" gasped Garion. 

"Yes. We're going to release Zedar." 


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings. _

* * *

Let's get this done with before the chapter, so it won't spoil the dramatic emphasis. Thank you to everyone who reviewed TWICE instead of just ONCE like MOST of you are doing. Belgarion/The Sapphire Rose, Kell(who actually reviewed 3 times), Gani Tobashi, voidhawc, Raal the Sword Master(wait, that's me), and Littletiger, who reviewed my other story twice and this one once. 

* * *

**Chapter 16**

It was a small group that gathered in the ancient ruins of the city of Eternal Night, the site of the titantic battle between the Rivan King and the Dragon God, now dead and quiet, the unnatural darkness lying heavy over the malignant city. The tomb of Torak, where he had awakened, was permeated with a musty, heavy smell, as if the air were too thick to breathe, and it the view of the sky was clear through the broken roof, mute testimony to the powers that had been used in the battle. A chill was present in the room, and all there felt it not only as a physical chill, but a mental and emotional one as well. 

Durnik's ordinary face was calm and grave as he looked around the room where he had lost his first life, showing only emotion of regret. His solid, familiar presence filled the others with a comforting certainty. 

Beltira and Belkira had drawn close together, conflicting, yet identical, emotions flickering over their faces. At one moment they had sadness written over their faces, then annoyance, than apprehensive waiting. They bit their lips and looked at Belgarath, who stood in the middle of the floor, scowling. 

He wore his old shabby clothes, and held nothing, but he seemed to radiate the sense that something was going to happen, something important. His silvery hair and beard glinted in the dim light of the candle that they had carried in, and for a moment his eyes seemed filled with some unbearable grief. 

Polgara stood beside Durnik, and _her_ face was like a thundercloud. Garion remembered the time right after Durnik had died, and she had wanted Belgarath to bring Zedar back up so she could kill him. He worried about what she might do. Hurl herself at Zedar with rage? But it had been Zedar's act that had fulfilled the prophecy by giving Durnik two lives, and strengthened Aunt Pol to be able to resist Torak's crushing might. It was Zedar that had ultimately defeated Torak. The servant defeated the master. The irony of it, Garion thought, was somehow not funny at all. 

Garion, himself, as he looked around the room, felt as if he had returned to a dream. The events of Cthol Mishrak, and his titantic battle with Torak, were there in his mind, but they seemed like they had happened to someone else, someone who had taken over while Garion stood by. In truth, Garion realized, they all had two identities: that of their outward identity, and the identity given to them by the Prophecy. During that fateful battle, Garion had stepped aside, and the Rivan King had taken over. 

The last member of the gathering was glowing slightly as he always did, his blond curls framing his face in an innocent way that reminded Garion of the little boy who he had saved from the crumbling Rak Cthol. He stepped forward. 

"I'll go tell him what he's to do." 

"Good," Belgarath growled. "I don't want to have to." 

Eriond stepped to the center of the room, and slowly sunk into the floor. Good thing Silk's not here, Garion thought as he watched the spot where Eriond had disappeared. How would Zedar feel, being released after so long? Would he rage? Scream? Try to kill Belgarath? Refuse to help? Escape and go help the Morindim? Destroy all of them there in revenge? Garion tensed, waiting. 

* * *

Eriond began his long descent through the earth, his incandescent form passing through the rock, descending to the mind he could feel below, a mind fluttering like a caged butterfly, weak from endless nothingness. Zedar's heart beat slowly, confined within the rock, and he did not breathe, for he did not have to. And finally Eriond saw through the rock the imprisoned form of Zedar, his eyes wide and unseeing, his body spread-eagled in his stone prison. 

Eriond looked at the fallen sorcerer, his eyes sad. This man had found him when he was a little boy, and raised him. He had not been a father to him, but he was the only person Errand had ever known. It was for Zedar Errand had stolen the Orb, even though the very hints of his future had been touching his mind, and he knew there was something deeper. This man, sentenced to this horrible prison, was the one Errand had grown up with, and the one man in the world Eriond knew best. He understood all men, but Zedar had raised him, and he could see his mind as clearly as his own. 

He just watched for a moment, feeling emotion radiating through Zedar. Torak's hold was gone, that iron barrier that had prevented his conscience, his memories, his love for Aldur, to surface. His mind was in turmoil now. He felt anguish, horrible anguish at what he had done, but no way to pay for it. Maybe it would be kinder to leave him here... But Eriond knew the world had to be saved. And Zedar, apostate or not, clumsy or not, was a sorcerer. The tenth sorcerer. 

"Zedar." 

In some way, the sorcerer's eyes focused, and came to rest on the glowing form of Eriond through the rock. He tried to speak, but then sent his thought out. 

_"Errand?"_

"Eriond now, Zedar." The young god's eyes were full of compassion. "I fulfilled my destiny as Errand, and became my true self, Eriond." 

Somehow Zedar knew. _"A god..."_

"After Belgarath left you here, Zedar, Torak woke. He rose and moved to confront Belgarion, but Belgarath flew in his way." 

_"He must not..."_

"He was flung aside side like a wisp, and Torak advanced. He bent his will upon Polgara, commanding her to submit to him, to be his wife. But Durnik, the man she loved... his body was on the floor, and Belgarion filled her mind with his memories. And she stood fast, and Torak turned in rage to Belgarion." 

_"I felt the earth shake. The final outcome..."_

"Or so it seemed. Belgarion killed Torak, and his brothers came to mourn him, and Durnik was restored life, his second life." 

_"The Man With Two Lives."_

"Yes. And Polgara and Durnik were married. And many years passed, and I grew up with them. But then turmoil came, and Belgarion's firstborn was kidnapped, and the Prophecy spoke and said, 'Beware of Zandramas', and the entire company went off on a chase for the missing boy, with Cyradis, prophetess of the Dals, guiding them. Many more companions joined them, and they met many people and changed their perceptions on many things." 

_"The Dark Prophecy rose again?"_

"It did. But the Child of Light and the Child of Dark met for the last time in the cave at Korim, and transferred their positions on two who might be the new Gods of Angarak: Belgarion's son and I. And Cyradis Chose me, and the Sardion was destroyed, and Zandramas was obliterated, the Dark Prophecy with her, and there was one new Prophecy. Belgarion's son was returned to his parents." 

There was a long silence, and then Zedar said, _"So many years have past. I have been trapped for so many years, so many things."_

"But now, another conflict has risen, Zedar. The Morindim and an unknown leader march on Sendaria, and the Orb refuses to help, and nine sorcerers cannot stop them. Sendaria is doomed to fall beneath their marching feet if we cannot find some way to stop them." 

_"_You _could do it."_

Eriond shook his head. "I am the guardian of the world. I cannot intercede with something the Prophecy may have planned. We only have one more option, Zedar. We need a tenth sorcerer." He let a long pause slide by. "We need you, Zedar." Zedar's face crumpled. _"I can't. I can't face them. I betrayed them. They'll hate me, scorn me."_ "Do you wish to let the world be destroyed?" _"The Morindim are not_ that _powerful."_ "You underestimate them, Zedar. They _are_ that powerful, under their leader, that nothing but ten sorcerers can stop them. Will you come?" Zedar paused, and Eriond felt his mind roil in uncertainty. But suddenly it calmed, and there was a determination at the center. Eriond tried to see the cause of the determination, but Zedar sent his thought, and it slipped away. _"I will."_

* * *

Eriond slowly rose out of the floor again. "He's ready." 

Belgarath sighed deeply. Raising an arm, he brought it down, and with a crushing, wrenching noise like a thunderclap, a huge vertical crack appeared in the floor, stretching deep into the earth. And Belgarath leaped into the void, and the crack closed again. 

The small room was silent again, as each breathed in the heavy air. Aunt Pol was looking at her husband, and Beltira and Belkira were looking at them both, but Durnik's calm eyes were only fixed on the spot where Belgarath had vanished. Apprehension filled the room. 

Then the thunderclap sounded again, and this time two rose out of the earth. 

One was Belgarath, still glowering, but this time with an indefinable sadness about him. 

The other was Zedar. 

Zedar's silvery beard and hair were so much like Belgarath's that the sorcerers looked almost exactly the same. His clothes were still torn and ragged, almost exactly as they had been when they had last seen him, but now his head was bowed, and he looked only at the floor, unwilling to meet any of their eyes. There was an air of sorrow, of grief, of loss, about him, and his eyes were shadowed. He stood there silently, waiting for their choice. 

Beltira and Belkira were the first to speak. 

"Belzedar." 

"Our brother." 

"I have no right to that name," Zedar's voice was barely audible as he turned his head away. They all watched him, and the anger in Aunt Pol's eyes was replaced by suspicion. She stepped forward, her face hard, and jabbed the sorcerer in the chest. 

"Listen, Zedar. You're here because we need you, not because we've decided to let you out. We need your help to keep the Morindim from reaching Sendaria, and leaving destruction in their wake. Otherwise, you'd be under in rock, where you should still be." Her eyes were steely grey. 

Zedar looked up, and his eyes met Aunt Pol's squarely. He stared into her face, bitterness in his eyes. His voice was soft. "Do you think I don't know that, Polgara? Do you think I would believe you would forgive me for what I did? I killed your husband." 

"And for that you should die!" snarled Aunt Pol, starting forward. Durnik put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to stop. 

"Durnik," Zedar said calmly, nodding to him. His glance flickered around the room, then returned. "It was you, wasn't it? It was you who said yes." 

Durnik looked into his eyes, then nodded slowly. 

"I thought so," Zedar's voice changed, became bitter, mocking, sardonic. "I killed you, and through your death the Child of Light triumphed. But that doesn't matter, does it? None of you care that I did what had to be done. All you think of is exactly what I did. Apostate. Apostate. Apostate. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" His bitter eyes spun over all of them, and he turned to look at Belgarath. "And you. Only you could reverse what you'd done. But you didn't do it because you wanted to. You did it because if you didn't, the world would die." He stepped forward, closer to Belgarath. "You, so self-righteous, because _you_ were Aldur's first disciple, _you_ didn't betray him, _you_ never were an apostate. _You_ weren't chosen by the Prophecies to be the doom of the Children of Light. The Prophecies. Not the Dark, not the Light. Both of them. Both of them chose me to be the one person who would really lose everything. To Torak, death was a relief. Nothing loved him. Nothing cared. Zandramas never had anything. But I?" His mocking expression suddenly vanished. "I had everything. I had a Master who loved me, I had power, I had six brothers whom I loved and who loved me. I never had anyone who loved me before, but now I was basking in it. And then..." He went silent. Finally he pointed to the Orb strapped to Garion's back, which was glowing faintly blue. "Then that thing entered my life, and I lost everything." His mocking tone came back. "So keep your little self-righteousness around you, all of you. You don't understand. You never will." 

He turned and walked past them, out through the doorway, and left the seven sorcerers in silence behind. 

Eriond watched them all, his glowing face sad, then bowed his head. "The Morindim are marching. We must go now to stop them." 


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

**Chapter 17**

General Vador of the Tolnedran legions paced back and forth, shouting orders to his troops. The legions wheeling, marching back and forth with razor precision, in perfect formation, with their shields facing outwards, and their other hands holding spears through the gaps. 

Lord Barak of the Cherek beserkers clanged his huge sword on his shield, roaring out commands to his fellow Chereks and imprecations at the foe. His men, dressed in chain mail and fur and carrying axes or swords, roared out in response, their blades glinting in the light. 

Archer Lelldorin of the Asturian bowmen stretched his bowstring, limbering up the mighty longbow. "Let them feel our rain of death!" he yelled, his red-gold hair wildly disheveled and his face alight with excitement, waving his bow about. 

Sir Mandorallen of the Mimbrate knights paced up and down, clanking in his armor. Sliding his visor up, he looked at his fellow knights, then out over the edge of the pass to the plain below, where distant black figures were marching. "Hear this, thou enemies of the West and thou invaders of this fair land, thou shalt fall beneath the threshing hooves of our mighty warhorses, and thou shalt be cut down like hay by our mighty blades, for, even if we doth be inclined to give thee mercy, none canst stand against us, the foremost knights in all the world!" The Mimbrate knights gave out a cheer. 

Lord Hettar of the Algarian horsemen stretched his lean body, placing one hand on the side of his horse's head as the stallion looked down at him and whickered nervously, murmuring soft words to the animal. His eyes went distant, and the horse calmed, as did the other mounts of the Algars. The Algars looked on the sight with understanding, for their future Clan Chief of Clan Chiefs was a Sha-Dar. 

Baron Khendo of the Drasnian pikemen carefully lifted his huge weapon, testing the feel of it as he always did before a battle. For some reason, he didn't feel as eager as he usually did. Maybe it was the fact that these Morindim fought with poison. That was cheating, he thought. Of course, he was offended mostly by the thought that someone else besides the Drasnians had come up with it, rather than the cheating itself. Or maybe it was because Prince Kheldar's child had died. Javelin, the chief of Drasnian intelligence, had gone into mourning for his great-niece/nephew, and that somehow put a black cloud over everything. 

Lord Kail of the Rivan infantry stood tall and grim in his bleak clothes, his lined eyes scanning the ranks of his countrymen. War. Once again. He thought of his brother Olban, who had died in the Battle of Thull Mardu. Died with no one by his side, thought a traitor to the Rivan King. But he hadn't been, really, and Kail had seen the tears filling his father's eyes as he had turned away from his dying son. His father was dead, too. Dead at the hands of the Bear Cult. Kail felt an icy anger burn within him. His family had paid dearly for peace. And now these Morindim were threatening it. 

Torchek of the Nadraks shifted his lean form, glad they had got there in time. Of course, Drosta hadn't wanted to send the forces to aid, but the messenger the girl sent back had said that if the Morindim weren't defeated, they would start rampaging over the entire western continent. Torchek thought the postscript about the Alorns becoming angry at the lack of aid and invading Gar Og Nadrak probably had something to do with it, too. 

Belgarath turned to the nine other sorcerers who stood in a little group, watching the marching army. Zedar's bowed form was a little apart from the rest, and he was speaking to no one. "Any plan?" 

"We can move out there to attack before they even get to our army," Garion said, shading his eyes to look at the cloud of dust that was marching across the dry grass. "We don't want to take chances." 

"Good idea," Belgarath said. "Should we go for the leader or the army?" 

"The army would take too long, Belgarath," one of the twins told him. "Let's go for the leader." 

"The army might break and run if their leader's dead," the other one said. 

Silently, the nine blurred into hawks, and winged up into the air, followed by a raven as black as night. 

_"See?"_ Aunt Pol's voice hissed in Garion's mind. _"He hasn't changed at all."_

Garion glanced over at Zedar with his piercing golden eyes. He noticed that Poledra, who had refused to come watch Zedar be brought up, was staying close. _"Grandmother's ready if he makes a move, isn't she?"_ he asked. 

_"Yes,"_ Aunt Pol replied grimly. Garion twisted his head back around, focusing on the black marchers ahead. His blood pounded through his veins in a very unsettling way, and he felt as if he were about to break free of sanity any moment. If he had human hands and fingers, he would have fidgeted. But now he could only settle for clacking his beak in rapid, staccato bursts. 

_"Garion, would you stop that?"_ Belgarath asked irritably. _"You're making me nervous."_

_"Welcome to the group, father,"_ Aunt Pol said sarcastically. 

_"My, my, aren't we touchy today?"_ murmured Belkira. 

_"Who?"_ asked Durnik. 

_"Everyone,"_ said Beltira. _"We're all on edge."_

_"As usual,"_ Belkira added. 

_"Right before a battle."_

_"Would you stop that?"_ growled Belgarath. _"I thought you'd managed to break yourselves of that habit." _

"We try." 

"But we always slip back." 

"To the old ways." 

"Now I know why it annoyed Beldin," Belgarath sighed. 

Senji looked back at them. _"The twisted one who came to the University of Melcene with you and Belgarion? Whatever happened to him?" _

"He finished his job," Poledra said quietly, moving slightly up. _"In the end, they changed into two hawks, one with blue bands on his wings, the other with lavender, and they flew off into the sky." _

"They?" asked Senji, frowning slightly. 

_"He and the woman he loved." _

"She wasn't a sorcerer, was she?" 

"No. She was a Nadrak woman." 

"A Nadrak woman?" 

"Ayan's mother, to be exact." 

Senji looked startled. _"But Ayan wasn't Beldin's child, was she?" _

"No. Vella was married to another man, but he was killed by a bear." 

"Father!" Aunt Pol's voice was sharp, drawing their attention to the black marching horde. 

_"What, Pol?" _

"Look closely at it. Very closely." 

There was a silence, then Belgarath groaned, and began swearing. 

_"What?"_ asked Senji anxiously. 

_"The illusion-caster!"_ Belgarath snarled, and went back to swearing, biting off curses with his beak. 

_"They aren't really there, right?"_ Garion guessed. _"They're somewhere else, and they tricked us into thinking they made less time than they did." _

"Then where are they?" Senji asked, peering around. 

_"There."_ The voice in their minds was quiet, and only faintly familiar to Garion. It had a strange overtone of sadness. Garion tried to look deeper into the mind, but it was a black wall. They turned to look at the raven. It had turned, and was flying toward the entrance of the gorge. 

The swift hawks caught up with the ebony raven in seconds, and were racing along beside him, headed for the entrance of the gorge where the armies of the West were concealed. 

_"Are you sure?"_ Poledra's voice was harsh and skeptical. 

Zedar turned to regard her with one emerald eye. _"Yes,"_ he replied after a moment. 

_"I'd better warn our forces,"_ Belgarath said. 

_"What about the illusion?"_ Senji asked anxiously. _"Will the armies be able to see through it?" _

"It won't work in close range," Belgarath answered. _"Not a large-scale one like that."_

But there was a swift shimmering near the gorge. 

_"He realized we've seen through it,"_ Pelath murmured in his quiet voice. 

Sure enough, the shield vanished, and the real marching Morindim appeared, funneling swiftly into the gorge. 

Belgarath's mind reached ahead. _"Barak! Hettar!" _

Garion followed the thought, and was suddenly with Barak, feeling the red-bearded Cherek's perplexity. _"What? Belgarath?"_ The voice was blurred and indistinct. 

_"Don't talk, Barak, think!"_ Belgarath snapped. 

_"What are you doing, Belgarath?"_ The voice was clearer now. 

_"The Morindim were an illusion. The real ones are entering the gorge right now."_

There was a pause. 

_"We're ready, Belgarath. Everyone's just nervous with tension." _

"Good. Give the order for them to ready themselves. We'll get back there as quickly as we can." 

Belgarath turned to the rest of them as Garion's thought returned to his hawk body. 

_"Garion, to the Rivan infantry. Pol, you go to the Mimbrates. Beltira and Belkira, to the Drasnians. Pelath, take the Algarians. Senji, you take the Nadraks. Durnik, the Asturians. No, the Tolnedrans. Dear, you can take the Asturians."_ He sighed. _"I get the Chereks. Zedar..."_

But the black raven had already climbed the updraft of air. _"Scout from overhead."_ Zedar's 'voice' was bitter. _"Don't go near the armies of the West."_

Belgarath didn't reply. 

They all beat their wings faster, urging their light bodies on, then diving to the hidden armies so fast it looked like they were plummeting out of control. Far above them, the raven circled higher, over the battlefield. 

Garion landed among his gray-cloaked subjects, and shifted back so he was his tall, sandy-haired form once again. He looked about, and a surge of pride rose in him for his grim, serious people. They stood firm, watching the advancing Morindim come, their faces grave and their demeanors somber. They knew what the waves of black pouring in the gorge meant. They knew this wasn't just a frolick on a spring day, or a boar hunt, or a practice session. They knew this was war. 

Belgarath's voice came to Garion. _"We're ready. Give the signal."_

Garion climbed to the peak of the outcrop, reaching behind him with two hands. There was a grating noise as the massive sword of the Rivan King cleared the sheath. Garion lifted the awesome blade and held it extended with both hands above his head. The sword burst into brilliant blue flame, tinting Garion's skin and clothes with a radiant light. Those watching thought a star had fallen from the sky and shone out from the mountain. 

The intense blue light illuminated in an eerie light the rocky landscape. The Morindim stopped dead, waiting warily. There was the blast of a hunting horn, the rattle of rocks under pounding hooves, and a shaking of the earth. From around a turn in the gorge Mimbrate knights galloped, dreams of glory shining through their visors. A rain of steel-tipped arrows shot down from the sky, sweeping through the black wave like a deadly rain. Chereks, brandishing their war axes and howling with the insanity that only beserkers have, charged from behind the horde, cutting off the escape from the gorge. A small black winged shape circled above. The knives of the Morindim cleared their sheaths and glimmered in the sunlight, the sunlight that was a mockery of the slaughter that would now commense. 

Garion gazed out over the charging forces. 

Let the battle begin. 


	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings. There are many direct quotes._

The plot is mine. 

* * *

**Chapter 18**

The Mimbrates hit the Morindim with a resounding crash, driving the wave backward as the lance-like charge of Mimbrates parted the foe like a gleaming wedge of steel. Asturian arrows buried themselves in the soft flesh beneath the black robes, and Morindim screamed, clutching at the long arrow shafts, before sinking to the earth, their eyes rolling up. The Chereks met the rear of the horde with a fateful outcome. Morindim fell, their necks twisted at strange angles or limbs completely severed from their bodies, fountaining blood onto the dirt that was rapidly staining red. The Asturian arrows clanged off Mimbrate armor and dove into black robes, avoiding the Chereks. Morindim skillfully aimed their deadly knives to the joints and cracks in the Mimbrate armor, and the faces of the Chereks. 

Chereks stiffened where they fought and fell. One crazy beserker got a shallow gash on his cheek, and fought for a full five minutes, all the while rapidly succumbing to the poison, his limbs stiffening as he staggered at his opponents. Garion watched him with horrified fascination as he swung his mighty ax even as he slowly died from the poison. 

The thought ran through his head that he had never actually been in a war. During the Battle of Thull Mardu and that whole campaign against the Angaraks, he had been nowhere near it. He had been sneaking around with Belgarath and Silk trying to get to Cthol Mishrak before Torak woke up. 

But this thought only drew his eyes to the black shape hovering over the battle. Zedar was acting nothing at all like he thought he would. Didn't he feel anger, rage? Didn't he want to be free? What was going to happen when the war was over? What if Belgarath tried to imprison him again? The whole situation would be terribly awkward. They would probably just have to let him go free. His spirits were broken, anyway. His Master, under who's cruel oppression he had given away all he loved and betrayed his first Master, was dead. And so he had become an apostate for nothing. 

What would he feel? Garion's eyes followed the raven. How much would his life hurt him? 

But the sounds of battle soon drew Garion's thought, and he turned back to watch the mass of fighting men on the ground. The sheets of deadly arrows were scything through the ranks, but there were always more black robes, always more Morindim to crowd in and fill the gaps. How many were there, anyway? The dying littered the field, some groaning, others lying deathly still as their lifeblood seeped. 

Suddenly all the Chereks leaped for cover among the rocks and the Mimbrates galloped to safety, leaving the Morindim exposed. Garion watched as the next step of the plan unfolded. A strange rumbling noise could be heard throughout the gorge, echoing slightly. Rocks on the sides began to roll slightly. 

There was a yell from within the Morindim, "Avalanche!" 

But it was far worse than an avalanche. As the cause of the rumbling came pounding down the gorge in a rushing wave of black and brown, they flinched back in dismay. The bulls of the Algars were stampeding. The colossal wave of pounding hooves bore down on the Morindim as they stared. From behind the cows came a shrill, piercing scream, and for a moment as they reared, Hettar's long scalp-lock and Relara's flowing hair were seen---on the backs of Hrulgrin. The carnivore horses screamed out their defiance to the sky, desperately trying to rid themselves of their Sha-Dar riders. The cows, panicked by the shrieks of their pursuers, blindly crashed into the Morindim, trampling them under hard hooves. 

In the wake of the cattle and the Hrulgin, the golden armor of the Tolnedran legions gleamed as they advanced. The cattle were gone down the gorge, and the Hrulgin had vanished, as the wall of shields neared the trampled Morindim. The ones left who could stand or the ones who had slain the cattle that were bearing down on them were on their feet, their knives flashing. 

"Spears!" came a bellow. Sharp spear points shot out through the gaps in the shields on that command. "Forward run!" was barked. The Tolnedrans broke into a jog, driving the Morindim back as they went. 

_"Ready,"_ Zedar's quiet voice sounded in Garion's mind, and he turned to the hidden Rivan infantry and gave the signal. The infantry emerged from the hiding places to block the way of the Morindim as they advanced, their specially borrowed shields at the ready. Knives clanged off the shields of both Rivan and Tolnedran, and long, waving pikes were seen as the Drasnians massed behind the infantry. The legions were running now, and the Morindim were driven back from that deadly wall, beginning to be crushed up between the two forces. But then they stopped and all the Morindim covered their eyes, as the Western armies watched in bewilderment. 

There was a fiery explosion above them, in the air, and a great flash of light. The armies cried out and cringed, blinking to try to clear the spots from their eyes. Garion shot a swift order to Beltira and Belkira's joint mind, and Durnik's familiar awareness. _"They're blinded. Retreat, we'll send the Nadraks and the Algars in."_

_"Right,"_ Belkira's thought came back, and there was a horn blown. The Rivans and the Drasnians retreated, the Tolnedran backing away to cover. The Morindim stood alone. 

_"Now!"_ Belgarath's voice barked to Senji and Pelath, and the cavalry drummed out from behind the rocks, watching the Morindim carefully for any sign of another explosion. Belgarath continued talking quickly, _"That explosion was the first demonstration that we're not going to be able to fight them off with mere force. We're going to have to use the Will and the Word, but we'll try to hold off as long as we possibly can."_

There was another explosion, but this was behind the Algars, and the rocks that clattered down blocked the pass. 

_"That might have done the job for us,"_ Senji told them. _"I think we'd better withdraw the armies and take this into our hands now." _

"All right," Belgarath agreed slowly. _"Withdraw the Nadraks and Algars."_

The Nadraks and Algars wheeled and were gone among the rocks. The black raven swung lower to wait for the nine hawks that climbed the winds toward him. The ten sorcerers spread out in a strange formation, and joined wills. 

_"The leader,"_ Belgarath's voice was tense. _"I don't feel a shield. We'd better get him while we can."_

Their blow was unexpected. Their minds found the mounted black figure and struck quickly at it, with the sting of a lash. The sudden blow broke through any shield that might have been there. 

A black cloud of smoke enveloped the leader, and they all felt a hot surge of triumph. 

And then he started laughing. 

The smoke gradually cleared away, and they all could see the black-robed figure, his chilling laughter that seemed hot and cold at the same time echoing throughout the chasm. He threw back his hood, and they all could see lank hair as black as coal, and icy blue eyes that pierced the ten sorcerers above. He was laughing, laughing in defiance. What had happened? 

_"It didn't do anything!"_ Garion cried out in their minds. 

But Belgarath had already taken the next step. _"The Morindim! We'll have to pick them off, one by one!" _

"We'll never get done in time!" Beltira said. 

_"We'll have to try."_

The combined might of the ten sorcerers struck down at the shield, and felt it give way. Their burning thought made a Morindim falter, then another, and another. They heard the laughter stop as the leader saw his men slowly collapse, one by one. 

The fire burning in the pass faded away, and the Morindim marched on, ignoring the fact that one by one, they were falling. 

_"Not enough time!"_ yelled Senji, in anguish. 

The Morindim were marching down the pass, toward the unprotected land of Sendaria. 

They had failed. 

Belgarath let out a shriek of absolute despair and fury, stroking up to an unbearable height as his calls of rage echoed. 

A black winged form dove toward the Morindim. 

_"I should have known,"_ snarled Poledra, and she clasped her wings tightly to her body as she prepared to dive after Zedar. 

_"NO!"_ Eriond's voice crackled in their minds, and they all winced at the force of it. Poledra drew up short, and they all hung in place, watching as the raven dove to the Morindim. The Morindim stopped, waiting for orders. The leader's gaze followed Zedar. 

Absolute silence fell. 

And as the raven drew up, in his place was a man, an old man whose beard and hair were as silvery as frost. In shock, the Morindim drew away as he landed gently on the ground in their midst. Anguish and shame were written over his face. 

"_MASTER!_" his call rang throughout the gorge, a clarion call of grief and sadness. 

And a god responded. 

A soft blue glow permeated the gorge, as the incandescent form of Aldur appeared, shining as he stood above them all, seemingly in midair. "Yes, my son?" His voice was filled with sorrow, and yet infinite love. 

Tears were streaming down Zedar's face, mingling with his beard, and his voice rang with anguish. "I betrayed you, Master! I betrayed you! I betrayed my brothers! I BETRAYED YOU ALL!" 

"Zedar," Aldur's voice was gentle. "You did what you had to do. If you had not, all the world would have perished, for the prophecies would never have been fulfilled. You were needed to do what you did. You saved the world, my son." 

Zedar turned his face to his first Master. "Do you….. do you forgive me, Master?" 

"Of course, my son, I forgive you." 

Zedar looked up to where Belgarath hovered. "Belgarath?" 

The hawks suddenly dropped to the cliff edge, and they suddenly were all in their real forms. 

Belgarath looked down at the form of his apostate brother, and a thousand thoughts and memories flashed across his mind, his face inscrutable. 

_ A panicked, accented voice spoke. _

"He made the sun come up! Then he raised a Demon Lord! My clan will have no further part in this!" 

"They must_! Belgarath must not be permitted to reach Mallorea! We _must_ stop him!" _

"There's nothing I can do. My clan is scattered to the winds. I could not gather them together again even if I wanted to. Belgarath is too powerful. I will not face him again." 

"Think of what you're giving up, Etchquaw. Will you be the slave of the king of hell for the rest of your life?" 

"Morindland is cold and dark, Zedar. I do not fear the flames of hell." 

"But you could have a god! My Master will accept you if you will do only this one small thing for him!" 

"You have my final word, Zedar. I will have nothing more to do with this Belgarath. Tell your Master what I have said. Tell Torak to find someone else to contest with your brother Belgarath." 

Hot, blinding rage. Then more memories, his own voice, speaking. 

"We had a problem, Belsambar. We were all_ looking for solutions." _

"But I_ was the one who rained fire on the Angaraks. _You_ wouldn't have, not even _Beldin_ would have, but _I_ did. And when we started burning my kinsmen, Torak went mad. He wouldn't have broken the world and drowned all those people if I hadn't driven him to it." _

"We all_ did things he didn't like, Belsambar. You can't take all the credit." _

"You're missing my point, Belgarath. We were all_ corrupted by events. The world turned cruel, and that made _us_ cruel as well. The world's no longer fair. It's no more than a rotten, wormy husk of what it once was. Eternal night is coming, and nothing we can do will hold it back." _

"Go to bed, Belsambar. Things won't look so bad in the morning when the sun comes up." 

"If_ it comes up. Goodbye, Belgarath." _

"Don't you mean good night?" 

"Perhaps." 

A horrible vacancy, wrenching at his soul. Then time flew onward, and a light, dreamy voice spoke. 

"All right, listen carefully. I don't think I'll have time to repeat this. Zedar came to me and said that he was speaking for Torak. He said that the Rivan King was the only thing standing between Torak and something he wanted, and he'd give anything_ to the person who removed him. The offer was fairly simple. If I'd kill the Rivan King, Torak would marry me, and we'd rule the world jointly---forever. Zedar also told me that Torak would protect me from your Alorns. Did you happen to see the Dragon God on your way to Sthiss Tor?" _

"We must have missed him." 

"I wonder what can be keeping him." 

"Surely you weren't gullible enough to believe_ all that?" _

"How old would you say I am?" 

"That's impossible to tell, Salmissra. You take drugs that keep you from aging." 

"It may look look_ that way, but it's not really true. Actually, I'm fifty-seven, and none of my predecessors has lived much past sixty. There are twenty little girls out in the jungle training to take my place when I die. I believed Zedar because I _wanted_ to believe him. I suppose we never outlive our belief in fairy stories, do we? I didn't want to die, and Zedar seemed to be offering me a chance to live forever. I wanted that so much that I chose to believe what he told me… _

"The notion of conferring immortality on his handmaiden doesn't seem to have occurred to Issa, so I've only got about three more years to live. Zedar knew that, of course, and he used it to dupe me. I wish there was some way I could pay him back for that. He got everything he wanted from me, and all I got was a cup of foul-tasting poison." 

Regret and sorrow. Slowly, other pieces drifted up. 

The same dreamy voice spoke again. 

"Are you going to kill Zedar?" 

And an ominous, powerful voice that reeked of darkness. 

"I will not accept that, Zedar." 

His own voice spoke. 

"I'm going to kill Zedar." 

And again. 

"I'm going to give brother Zedar a quick lesson in good manners." 

And then again, strangely regretful. 

"Some promises can't be kept, Beldin." 

But the thing that rose before all other memories was strange, ridiculous in comparison to all the others. 

_ Zedar's voice spoke. _

"Oh, puissant and all-knowing God, I have come a thousand leagues to behold thy glory and to worship thee." 

"Puissant? Quit trying to show off your education, man. Now get up and stop this caterwauling. I'm no more a god than you are." 

"Art thou not the great God Aldur?" 

"I'm his disciple, Belgarath. What is_ all this nonsense?" _

"It is to please the God. Tell me truly, dost thou think he will find this poor offering of mine acceptable?" 

"I can't think of a single think you could have done that would offend him more. Don't be an idiot! You'll burn yourself!" 

"It must be hidden. I would rather die than offend mighty Aldur." 

"Just get out of my way." 

"What?" 

"Stand clear, unless you want to take a trip with your goat. 

"You're going to wear out your clothes if you keep doing that, and my Master won't find it very amusing." 

"I pray thee, mighty disciple of most high Aldur, instruct me that I offend not the god." 

"Be truthful, and don't try to impress him with false show and flowery speech. Believe me, friend, he can see straight into your heart, so there's no way you can deceive him. I'm not sure which god you worshipped before, but Aldur's like no other god in the whole world." 

"And how may I become his disciple, as thou art?" 

"First you become his pupil, and that's not easy." 

"What must I do to become his pupil?" 

"You must become his servant… 

"If it turns out that he doesn't please thee, I'll take him outside and turn him into a carrot, and that'll be the end of it." 

"That was unkindly said, Belgarath." 

"Forgive me, Master." 

"Thou_ shalt instruct him, Belgarath. Should it come to pass that he be apt, inform me." _

"I will, Master." 

"What is thy current study, my son?" 

"I examine the reason for mountains, Master." 

"Lay aside thy mountains, Belgarath, and study man instead." 

His own voice. 

"Sometimes promises can't be kept, Beldin." 

Can't be kept… 

"I'll support it, if necessary. I'll hold up our brother's tower until the end of days, if need be." 

"Warn Beldin and Belsambar about Belzedar. Sometimes he's a little impulsive." 

"Herein lies the past, and the present, and the future, also. This is but a small part of the virtue of the Orb. With it may man--or the earth herself---be healed or destroyed. Whatsoever man or god would do, though it be beyond even the power of the Will and the Word, with this Orb may it come to pass. The Orb hath revealed the future unto me, my son. It shall be the cause of much contention and great suffering and vast destruction..." 

Contention and great suffering and vast destruction... 

Belgarath took a deep breath, and spoke, his voice strangely gentle. "You betrayed the Master, Zedar. But you did it because you were drawn in because of your love for him. I forgive you." 

"We forgive you, Belzedar," the twins spoke, love and innocence shining in their pure faces. 

"I forgive you for killing me, Zedar," Durnik's voice rang out, honest and grave, "for if you had not, I would never had been able to marry my Pol." 

"I forgive you, Zedar," Aunt Pol's rich voice came, "because you only did what the Prophecies had decreed you must." 

"I forgive you, Zedar," Garion's voice came unbidden, ringing out with the voice of the Rivan King, "for all that you have done to this world." 

"Your brothers forgave you, Zedar," Belgarath said. "Beldin forgave you, because you loved him so much you offered to hold up his tower. Belmakor forgave you, because he knew he annoyed you much more than you annoyed him. Belsambar forgave you, because he, too, knew what must be done. They forgave you, Zedar." 

Poledra sighed. "I forgive you, Zedar." 

Aldur smiled gently at Zedar, all the love he had for his wayward son shining on his face. "We forgive you, Belzedar. We love you, and we forgive you, for anything you've ever done." 

The tears ran unchecked down Belzedar's face, but now they were tears of joy. And as he drew himself up, he seemed tall and strong once again, towering above the Morindim. And he lifted his hands to the sky, and gave the ultimate sacrifice for those who loved him. He cried out two words. 

"_BE NOT!_" 

Garion gaped, and then realized that the Will had been directed inwards, the Word focused on himself. And Zedar's skin began to glow with unbearable heat, and his skin began to split apart, to reveal a burning core. 

And the look on his face was not of pain or anguish, but of love and glory and exaltation. 

And the sorcerer Belzedar exploded, in a immense ball of flame that incinerated the Morindim where they stood, and charred everything exposed in the gorge to ashes, and scorched the rocks, and a horrible earthquake shook the ground and rattled the mountains, and there was a ripping, tearing noise that sounded like the scream of a mountain as it was torn apart. And as the concussion faded away, all that was left was the Morindim leader, standing untouched in the gorge, alone. 

His eyes dilated with hate, and he screamed out, "CURSE YOU!" in a ringing voice. 

Then he vanished. 

And silence fell. 


	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings. _

The plot is mine. 

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Zakath slumped in a nearby chair, exhausted. The Karands had retreated at daybreak, for no reason that they could see. They had just stopped, as if listening to something, and then turned around and fled, suddenly reduced to the howling fanatics they had been before whatever it was had come and changed them. There had been one man captured, a Melcene who had been shot through the leg. Zakath knew he would have to interrogate the man. He probably was just a common soldier. But he hadn't seen him yet, so one never knew. 

He got to his feet wearily. He'd better go quickly: if this was just a common soldier, he could turn him over to his interrogators. 

But when he walked into the man's cell, a slow, cold smile spread over his face. The prisoner shrank back, aware of that deadly expression. 

"Well, well." Zakath paced around the man silently, like a panther. "Mescan. How nice to see you again." 

"Y-your Imperial Highne-ne-ness," stammered the bureaucrat. 

"Was this a pleasant little venture, Mescan? You're feeling bored, so you decide to go attack your emperor's capital?" 

"I-I-I---" 

"Did I say you could speak?" Zakath's eyes were like ice. "I want their names, Mescan. I want to know who put you up to this. I want to know where they got the poison. I want to know who led the Karands." 

"P-p-please, your I-I-I-" 

"I want to know everything, Mescan. And you're going to tell me." 

The Melcene clamped his lips tight. 

"Very well." Zakath gazed at him again. 

Right on cue, Senji popped into existence, breathing hard. "Wow, that was a long way to translocate myself. How are you doing, Zakath? Is the siege faltering?" He caught a glimpse of Mescan. "Who's he?" 

"A very old friend," Zakath smiled. "General Mescan, let me introduce Senji, a Melcene sorcerer. A countryman of yours, I believe. Being a sorcerer, Senji can keep people in pain without them dying. Terrible, agonizing pain." Zakath leaned close to Mescan. "So I think you'll tell us everything." 

* * *

Urgit flopped down on the hard stone throne. "Well, this place hasn't changed," he said, looking with disgust around the gaudy throne room of Rak Urga. "You'd think they'd have improved the decoration while I was gone." 

"I'm sure they would have, brother, if it hadn't been for those annoying little nuisances they call an invasion," Silk said dryly. His face was still pale, and there was a haunted expression in his eyes, but his old humor was back. "As it was, I believe they were a little busy staying alive." 

"Like us." Urgit sighed moodily. "What did we accomplish in this? We ran up to the West only in time to run back." 

"We stayed alive," Silk said. "That's rewarding." 

"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten about that," Urgit mused. 

"Please, Urgit. Don't let these little things slip. They're very important, you know." 

"All right, Silk. You don't need to beat me over the head with it." 

"You never know. Prala certainly had to beat you over the head before you realized what she wanted you for." 

"She wanted to eat me for breakfast." 

"I think you'd make some tasty gruel." 

"Very funny, Kheldar." 

"Thank you." 

"I was being sarcastic." 

"So was I." 

"That wasn't the point, anyway. The point is that she clutches me like a miser clutching his pieces of gold." 

"Reminds you of Ce'Nedra, doesn't it?" asked Silk. 

Urgit laughed. "Yes, it does. Are all Tolnedrans like that?" 

"Just be thankful you didn't marry one." 

"Poor Garion. He got stuck with her anyway." 

"He loves her. That's all that matters to him." 

"You say it so disparagingly." 

"I don't have much respect for love." 

"Even when you fall tumbling into it?" 

"That wasn't some adolescent love. We made a good team, we accepted each other, and we knew it. So we married each other." 

"I still think she stuck out her net and snared you." 

"Everyone's got to get married sometime. Even you." 

"Yes, but did Prala have to rush into it?" 

"Marriage is a good thing, brother. It keeps you out of trouble." 

"You sound like my mother now, Kheldar." 

"And now you sound like my aunt." 

"I think I've got enough women in my life for now, brother. I really don't need any more." 

"I can see that." 

Urgit sighed mournfully. "Both my mother and my wife. I'll never be the same again." 

Silk grinned. "Just wait till you have a daughter." 

* * *

Garion watched Geran, Belgarik, Beldaran, and Poldara play happily with each other. He had missed them in the long series of battles and struggles, but his mind was only half on the children, as he was thinking over the events of the past few weeks. 

After the titantic explosion that had defeated the Morindim and made their leader flee, the armies of the west had packed up and started home: the Rivans and Chereks on the ships, the Algars riding down south to their wide plains, the Tolnedrans, Arends, and Nyissans marching back to their own nations, the glittering hordes vanishing into the distance. Urgit had departed with Silk for Rak Urga, since Velvet was coming with them to Riva, where she could stay with Ce'Nedra for a while. They all were very quiet around the two Drasnian spies, and the two had made the decision that they needed to be apart for a little while to heal, each in their own way. 

Garion sighed as he watched his own children play with the flaxen-haired twins. Belgarik and Poldara were Beldaran's age, and the two little girls were sitting in a corner playing with dolls stuffed with wool, while Geran was showing his younger cousin how one battled with wooden swords. 

The Karands had retreated to their own country, and most of the Morindim, of course, had been annihilated. Garion felt an obscure kind of pain over this. The Morindim hadn't had a god, of course, and all they had done was tramp around in the cold north wearing thick furs and grotesque tattoos, ever in fear of the demons they raised. But they were still a race, and the fact that they could just sit back and destroy them was a little sad. 

This in turn led his thought to Zedar. He had given up his life to save the west, given in up for them, who had been the sides of Light while he had been on the side of Dark for almost the history of the world. What had he been like before he betrayed his Master? Garion remembered Belgarath's book, and his description of Zedar. He had been desperately, fanatically protective of Aldur. He wouldn't tolerate any disrespect to his beloved Master. So why had he turned away? Just because a Prophecy older than the universe needed a pawn? Garion sighed heavily. At least it was finished. Zedar's fate would not gnaw on Belgarath's heart any more. None of them, when they thought of Cthol Mishrak, would have to remember the sorcerer deep below the earth. 

Garion pondered Zedar's strange behavior. Why had he been so meek, so humble, after his initial burst? Was it just grief? Or….. or was it because Torak was finally dead, and his influence was gone? Garion thought back over that, and realized that Zedar had been put into the earth while Torak was still alive. When Torak died, the burden was suddenly lifted from him, and he finally realized what he had done. He had been released from Torak's dominion, and finally was able to return to Aldur. But would Aldur accept him? He was a traitor and a murderer several times over. Garion now understood fully what Zedar had gone through in the moments before he gave his sacrifice. 

It must have hurt, Garion thought. It must have hurt to be torn apart from inside, to be turned into an explosion. But he had done it in love, and so no pain was great enough to banish it. Garion felt tears fill his eyes. 

_"If this gets any more cloying, I think I'll vomit."_ The gnarled, familiar voice was in Garion's head. He spun around, wildly searching for the speaker. No one was in sight. On an impulse, he walked to the window and pushed it open, sticking his head out to peer up into the sky. 

A blue-banded hawk and a lavender-banded one circled in the sky above. 

_"I guess he was useful for something after all."_

Garion smiled, sending his thought back. _"Yes, I guess he was, Beldin."_

Then Vella's voice was in his head, the love beneath her usual biting remarks showing through. _"Tell my daughter I love her, Garion. I think she should know." _

"Of course, Vella. I'll do that." 

"Goodbye, Garion….." Their voices faded away. 

Garion watched the two hawks circle off, and said aloud, quietly, "Goodbye." 

* * *

"Do you have to go?" Kheva asked Ayan, feeling strangely sad. 

"Don't get soft on me, your Majesty," Ayan said, but it seemed to not have the sting that was in it before. 

"Ayan, why do you insist on calling me 'Your Majesty'? You scream at me, insult me, tell me I'm nothing but a spoiled brat, and then you call me 'Your Majesty'?" 

"It serves as a good insult." 

Kheva laughed. "Yes, it would at that. But why would you have to go back to Gar Og Nadrak? You could stay here as an ambassador." 

"An ambassador?" Ayan looked incredulous. "You forget, boy, I'm King Drosta's property. I have to go back to him." 

"See, now you call me boy." 

"That's only when you're being particularly immature." 

"Immature!" Kheva yelled. "I am not being immature." 

"You certainly looked like it." 

"No, I did not!" 

"How would you know? It's you who're the one in question." 

"Exactly." 

"I don't see the point." 

"You wouldn't." 

"Stop that." 

"You do it all the time." 

"So? Stop that." She prodded him in the chest. 

He didn't even think about it. He just leaned down and kissed her gently. 

She smiled at him wryly. "What a unique farewell, your Majesty." And with that, she sauntered down off the corridor. 

Kheva silently watched her go. 

* * *

Belgarath and Polgara stood on the rocky heights of Riva, gazing down at the gray, windswept sea and the small ships pulling away. Belgarath was unusually serious, his black cloak whipping backward in the swirling wind. Polgara was wrapped in her own midnight blue cloak, her dark hair, touched with the beautiful white lock, flowing in the wind. 

They stood together, watching the lone gulls circling over the tossing sea under the gray sky, saying nothing, just watching the stormy gray water twist and leap, their demeanors grave. Belgarath's lined eyes watched the water, and Polgara's timeless face was turned to the misty clouds above, both with their thoughts far elsewhere. 

Polgara spoke in a low voice. "Who was he, father?" 

Belgarath's eyes followed the waves slowly, his face grave. "There's no way to tell, Pol. He could have been anyone." 

"But if he was anyone, he wouldn't have been able to do the things he did." 

"Yes." Belgarath bowed his head. "We don't know who he was. We may never know who he was." 

There was silence again, as Belgarath the Sorcerer, the oldest man on the earth, and Polgara the Sorceress, the most beautiful woman in the world, contemplated the seas of Riva. 


	20. Thanks

_ Well, After the Prophecies is finally finished: eighteen chapters and around four months later. Thanks to everyone who stayed with this the entire way(The Sapphire Rose comes to mind) and all ideas and comments were appreciated. I might wait a little while to start the sequel and turn to my neglected Book of Belsambar for a little, but it'll be up, especially now that I have the Internet on my own computer. _

Hmm. Okay, since I accidentally put up this chapter and can't find a way to erase it, I guess I'll just use it for 

**Thanks:**

**The Sapphire Rose** and **Kell** are both on the top, as they reviewed every so often throughout the entire story and once at the very end, showing me that they've been with me all the way, reading, wondering, and guessing. They made suggestions, encouraged me, pointed out problems, and speculated on the identity of HIM. 

**Beldaran, littletiger**, and **Hsi Chan**, who also did this, but with fewer reviews, so I thought I'd lost them but was pleasantly surprised when they reviewed the last chapter. Unfortunately, Hsi Chan, your name wouldn't be very appropriate. I can't really say more. 

**Shinji Ikari**, for pointing out the stupidest mistake I'd made so far, and giving me the idea of Belgarath's and Polgara's memories. How could I have forgotten the Orb? At least it didn't hurt the story. I can't change Kheva and Ayan's relationship, because they're a little unusual. Remember Beldin and Vella? But everything else is probably the best suggestions I've had in a while. As you'll see, I'm inserting scenes with Zedar, Silk and Velvet, and Belgarath and Polgara's memories. Also for the suggestion about connecting the first few chapters with the rest of the story. 

**iscariot**, for giving me an honest opinion about my style and good comments. 

**Erica**, who really encouraged me with her review, letting me know I was at least able to have the effect I wanted. 

**shadowman**, for the good suggestion that I haven't had time to be able to put into play yet. 

**voidhawc**, especially for your second review. 

**Malefika**, for making me realize exactly what the document uploading thing was doing to my double-spacing between jumps to a different place. I hope you came back and read on so that you could see I fixed the demon problem. 

And **everyone else** who reviewed once, with good suggestions and encouraging comments. I'm really glad that I got Silk's character basically down. I'm going to refine the story, of course, fixing the age thing that Kell brought up and knocking it a little out of place, and smoothing out any awkward comments, elaborating on characters, etc. I'm mainly working on format right now. Don't mind any discrepancies, because it's in the middle of revision. 


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